


My Fair Witcher

by Prudabaga



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Comedy, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, My Fair Lady (1964) References, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Sparkle pants, it's all the tailor's fault, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2020-11-23 01:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20883572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prudabaga/pseuds/Prudabaga
Summary: Geralt came to the Imperial Capital to help Ciri settle in. Ciri's fine, now, but Geralt...Geralt is in over his head.In which Geralt is forced to take etiquette lessons, wears a variety of horrible doublets, and is laughed at by Lambert.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is, like, 10% plot and 90% an excuse to put Geralt in ridiculous outfits. It started off as a normal(ish) story, then about a chapter and a half in, I realized it was basically My Fair Lady and I just kind of rolled with it.
> 
> I'm working on the last chapters right now--should be updating once a week as I get them edited and finish up any sketches :D. Unbeta'd at the moment. If anyone in the witcher fandom wants to give it a look, drop me a line.

When Geralt thought, ‘_Either he’s going to return the kiss, or I’m going to end up in the dungeons’ _, he had to admit he hadn’t actually believed he’d end up in the dungeons. It had been more of a wry afterthought as he leaned in, watching Emhyr’s eyes widen in surprise--and really, that look alone almost made it all worth it. How many people had ever seen genuine shock on the Emperor's face? Emhyr was always ten steps ahead of everyone, so cold and calculating that there were rumors around the palace that he’d imbibed the same mutagens that witchers did, stripping himself of human emotions in exchange for superhuman intelligence. 

Though from where Geralt was standing--well, hanging, if he had to be completely honest, his hands clamped to the cold stone wall above him--the esteemed Emperor was looking like a bit of an idiot. 

“He’s part of a conspiracy to be rid of me,” Emhyr was calmly explaining to an apoplectic Ciri. 

“If I wanted you to be dead, you’d be dead,” said Geralt. Though he had to admit, he was wishing less than good health to Emhyr right now, and the man was still standing there smugly. Damn dimeritium shackles. 

“Not helping,” said Ciri. “But...yeah, he’s kind of right.”

Emhyr waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, I know his combat abilities would have made him more than a match for my guards. Dispatching me outright wouldn’t have done much good, though. He and his fellow conspirators needed me distracted. They needed me,” Emhyr paused to shoot a glare towards Geralt, “seduced.”

“Oh no,” said Ciri.

“Oh, yes,” said Emhyr.

“Oh gods,” said Geralt, banging his head back into the wall behind him. “Don’t tell me you thought-”

“It all started a little over a month ago, when I granted this witcher the pleasure of a few rounds of Gwent.”

Geralt didn’t need to hear this. He remembered events clearly enough, though he recalled them slightly differently…

* * *

When the Emperor's summons arrived, Geralt had packed his bags and buckled on his armor. He’d known that he’d overstayed his welcome in the Imperial Capital--the chamberlain’s increasingly surly looks weren’t subtle--and he’d fully expected to be handed a contract and told to scram. Originally he’d ridden in with Ciri to make sure that she made it safely to her new home, but then he’d just kind of...lingered. The past few weeks had been spent doing nothing but minor contracts and bumming around the kitchens.

But instead of going to the usual office, with the imposing desk and large piles of paperwork and equally large piles of anxious nobleman, Geralt had been led to a private room. Inside, he’d found Emhyr alone at a small table, a board of food and a fine bottle of wine waiting for him. 

“What’s this for?” Geralt asked, nodding at the set up.

“To celebrate Ciri’s success, of course,” Emhyr said.

“Of course,” echoed Geralt, and he settled down to wait for the other shoe to drop.

When small talk failed to break the ice--which it did, spectacularly, with Geralt only replying in grunts and shrugs--Emhyr sighed and gestured for him to pour himself a glass of wine. 

“Would you like to play a round of Gwent?” Emhyr asked.

“Sure,” said Geralt, shrugging. If Emhyr thought good wine and a card game were enough to ply Geralt into doing something he wouldn’t otherwise agree to, then he was in for a surprise. Alcohol and Gwent were a witchers’ bread and butter, and Geralt didn’t think the odds of either going to his head were high.

In hindsight, he should have known better than to underestimate Emhyr--or, in this case, underestimate his wine. It was smooth as silk, with just the right amount of acidity to nip at his tongue. He found himself closing his eyes, letting his heightened witcher senses revel in the fruity after tones of the barrel it was aged in. He could smell the quality of the grapes’ vines, could sense the richness of the soil they’d grown in, could practically feel the warm Toussaint sun they’d ripened under--and holy crap, if Emhyr was giving him _ this _wine to soften him up for a monster contract, then it was definitely a monster that was going to shred Geralt into a million tiny pieces. 

It was the best wine he’d ever had. It was also much, much stronger than he expected.

If Geralt had underestimated Emhyr’s wine, however, Emhyr had also underestimated Geralt’s game. For the first few cards Emhyr continued his casual conversation, clearly leading up to something, but as the first round drew to a close, he began to speak less, a frown starting to tug at the corners of his mouth. By the time Geralt won the round, he was silent. 

Emhyr rarely made mistakes, but when he did, he didn’t repeat them. He brought his full attention the next two rounds of Gwent, and through the growing haze of wine, Geralt took the opportunity to enjoy that as a victory in itself. So often Emhyr was only partially present, with most of his attention engaged in orchestrating a hundred other moments in time: assessing past ones, predicting future ones, and nudging present ones into line so everything flowed according to plan. But now--now he was actually fully there, sitting in front of Geralt, with his whole big, beautiful brain focused on their game. 

Geralt lost in the end, but clearly not by as much as Emhyr had been expecting him to. 

“Another round?” Geralt asked.

“It’s getting late, I’m afraid,” said Emhyr, and he looked genuinely disappointed to be saying no. Another victory. “Perhaps another time.”

“Oh? You’re not planning on sending me off on a contract, then?”

“The opposite, actually,” said Emhyr. 

“You plan on not sending me out on a contract? Didn’t need to soften me up with wine for that.”

“I’d planned on asking you to stay.”

“You want me to stay the night?” Geralt blinked at him. “Um, might have needed a bit _ more _wine before you asked that one, actually.”

Emhyr huffed. “Don’t be an idiot. I’m asking you to stay at court.”

“Dammit.” There was only one reason Emhyr would ask him for that. “For Ciri?”

“For Ciri.”

Geralt sighed. “How long?”

* * *

“How long?” Ciri asked when she saw him unpacking his saddlebags. She looked equal parts hopeful and suspicious. 

Geralt shoved another handful of dusty clothing into the wardrobe while he thought about how to respond. Emhyr’s answer to his same question had been vague. “Until Ciri is settled,” he’d said, by which he might have meant until Ciri was no longer wistfully eyeing the horizon every time a court function lasted more than an hour. Or perhaps it meant until Ciri was no longer fingering her dagger (which she’d refused to stop carrying) and meaningfully eyeing vulnerable spots when aristocrats talked to her for too long. Which, to be fair, did have the intended effect of causing them to scurry away, but as Emhyr had pointed out, she needed allies at court if she was going to make it past thirty.

Geralt couldn’t say that to her, though. She’d hate the idea that he was staying here to look after her, as if she was still a child. And he couldn’t blame her. But he still had nightmares of stepping into that hut on the isle of mists and seeing her lifeless body, of feeling her cold and still. 

“Could use a bit of a break from sleeping on the ground,” he said, which wasn’t even a lie. “Besides, got a daughter in line for the throne of the Nilfgaardian Empire--that’s gotta have some perks, right? So I’ll take it easy for a bit. Maybe pick up a few local contracts, kill a few drowners, clean up some rotfiends-”

“Trek through some sewers, slay a wyvern or two...”

“Yeah. You know, a vacation.”

Ciri laughed, and Geralt grinned back at her. It was hard to believe, after all they’d been through, but she was happy and whole. And dammit, he’d go through a worse hell than a few months of court life to keep it that way. 

“Well, if you ever need a hand vacationing, you can count on me,” Ciri said. “I mean it. Please. Killing drowners really would be a vacation after spending hours humoring courtiers. Did you know that one of them started a rumor that I’m a vampire?”

“It’s because you spend so much time glaring at people’s throats,” said Geralt.

“Yes, because I want to stab them, not bite them.”

“Well, that would explain the court’s new enthusiasm for garlic decor.” Geralt had passed at least two garlic wreaths on the way to his rooms. “Do they know-”

“That garlic doesn’t work? I told them. Strangely enough, my encyclopedic knowledge of vampires didn’t seem to reassure them.”

“Hmm. Weird.”

Ciri watched him put away his clothes in silence for a moment, her nose wrinkling at their smell. And okay, they didn’t smell like roses, but Geralt felt that the disgusted faces she was making were a bit dramatic. It hadn’t been that long since they’d been washed--only a month or two. Maybe four. Recently, anyways, by witcher standards. Palace life must be making her soft already. Not that he’d say that out loud. At least, not with her dagger within reach.

“At least I won’t be suffering alone anymore,” she said, smiling, as he stuffed the last of his shirts into the drawer.

“Meaning?”

“You have a strong connection to me--the future Empress. People who want to influence me, or want to influence Emhyr through me, will see you as a potential asset. And now you’re living here in the thick of it, where anyone who wants to can reach out and invite you to their soiree. Like it or not, you’re part of the game now.”

Geralt sighed, then stepped back to look over his handiwork. His clothes only took up one drawer of the enormous wardrobe, and they looked out of place next to the intricately carved wood. He was sure the chamberlain would have a conniption fit if he saw their grime dirtying up the fancy furniture, which was a cheering thought. And after Ciri’s words, he needed all the cheer he could get.

“I’m going to have to wear doublets, aren’t I?” he said.

“Well, you can’t wear those,” said Ciri, nodding towards the wardrobe.

“They’re not that bad.”

“Geralt, I saw one of them move without you touching it. I’m pretty sure they’re infested with something.”

“They have character.”

“They have fleas. Hey now, don’t look so down--I’m sure the chamberlain can get you a doublet that’s not that bad.”

* * *

The first event invitation arrived within the hour, cordially requesting his attendance at a ball the following month. Despite Ciri’s warnings about the inevitability of playing the game, Geralt chucked it in the trash. The court nobles might be determined to drag him into their petty intrigues, but Geralt had decades of experience fighting the kind of monsters that would make those same nobles piss themselves. He’d faced down kings and sorceresses and dragons--if it came to a battle of the wills, he felt fairly confident in his odds.

That confidence lasted for a good ten minutes, right up until the chamberlain announced himself at Geralt’s door with a light knock and a clearing of his throat.

“His Imperial Majesty sends his regards, and his tailor, who will help in preparation for Madam Paskamp’s ball,” said Mererid. “A barber will be by shortly as well, as it seems the gentleman has been unable to find the time to visit one since his last stay here.”

“No barber,” said Geralt. He stood aside to let in Mererid, then had to move further out of the way to accommodate the tailor, who was carrying an upsetting amount of fabric. There was definitely more than one set of clothes in there. The tailor looked set to outfit a whole village--or, Geralt realized with a sinking feeling, one witcher for a very, very long time.

“Nilfgaardian fashion dictates-”

“I remember.”

“Then-”

“I’ll wear your damn doublets, but I’m keeping the beard. If the barber wants to approach my throat with his blade, he’s welcome to try his luck.”

Mererid’s face puckered into an even sourer expression than normal, which Geralt hadn’t thought physically possible. “If the gentleman believes threats will be effective against His Imperial Majesty’s staff, he would be wise to think again.”

“What, you think I can’t disarm the barber without hurting him?” said Geralt.

He noticed the tailor approaching tentatively, a pair of pants held in front of him like a shield. The man’s expression suggested that, contrary to Mererid’s words, threats were very effective against the staff. And didn’t that just make Geralt feel like the world’s biggest heel.

He tried to loosen his posture a bit, and gave the tailor what he hoped was a reassuring smile. 

“The gentleman will please refrain from baring his teeth at the staff,” said Mererid coldly. 

Geralt gave up the grin.

The tailor hesitated for a moment, then handed over the pants quickly, as if Geralt might bite if he lingered too long. 

The pants were the same ones he’d worn last time he was at court. They seemed to fit well enough, but as soon as he had them on, the tailor started shaking his head in horror.

“He appeared before His Imperial Highness in these?” the tailor asked, his face pale.

Geralt looked down at himself. From what he could tell, the pants were about the right length, and they were a close enough cut around the waist that they didn’t even bunch up much when belted. He double checked, but no--his dick wasn’t hanging out. As far as he could tell, there was nothing about them to cause the tailor to look like Geralt had just killed his dog.

Mererid’s face was somber as he moved next to the tailor to survey Geralt. “During the event, there was no time to get them properly fitted, I’m afraid. We had to improvise and use clothing made for someone else who had similar measurements.” He put his hand on the tailor’s shoulder, and his gesture of comfort seemed to steady the poor man, who looked like he was about to cry--and really, there was only so much Geralt could take of people staring at his crotch with so much sadness and disappointment. 

He crossed his arms and frowned at them. “Then fix it,” he said. 

The tailor nodded, squared his shoulders, and gathered up his pins and measuring tools. He shot Geralt one last nervous look before approaching, but as he began to pull and pin at the fabric, his fear disappeared, replaced by brusque professional irritation.

Geralt hadn’t thought there could be much about his outfit to alter, but by the time the tailor had run through the pants, shirt, and underwear (his own were too baggy, apparently, which threw off the tailor’s “lines”, whatever that meant), he’d written what appeared to be a small novel worth of notes. Only now were they getting to the dreaded doublet. Various fabric samples were held up to Geralt and discarded, as were several spools of embroidery thread. 

“I thought Nilfgaardians weren’t big on color,” Geralt said as yet another swatch of gaudy gold brocade was tossed into the “definitely not” pile. It was indistinguishable from the ones in the accepted pile, at least to Geralt’s eyes, and since his eyes were witcher’s eyes he felt perhaps the tailor was being a tad picky. 

“These are accent colors,” said the tailor, or at least Geralt was pretty sure that was what he said--he was holding several pins in his mouth. 

“Right. I’m assuming we’re sticking with greys and blacks, then? Wouldn’t want to give some poor noble heart failure by wearing colors.” Not that Geralt really cared--his witcher gear wasn’t exactly a bouquet of rainbows--but it was the principal of the thing.

The next pin the tailor pushed into his jacket nicked his arm. Probably not an accident, Geralt decided with a wince, not if this really was Emhyr’s own tailor. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to piss off the man currently stabbing his outfit full of sharp bits of metal.

“Nilfgaardians value refinement and elegance,” said Mererid. “No, not that shade, it clashes with the gentleman’s eyes. See, any merchant with delusions of nobility could swath themselves in garish colors. It takes only coin and the ability to pick out the brightest fabric of the bunch--the fabric that will, by its very nature, be the first to draw the eye. It takes no refinement to pick it. It is, so to speak, the lowest hanging fruit.”

The tailor tossed the offending fabric and held up another that was a deeper hue. Mererid nodded in approval. “However,” he continued, “it takes true sartorial knowledge to be able to distinguish between a cheap black fabric and an expensive black fabric. Wearing fine fabric that’s been cut perfectly not only shows wealth, as that fabric and expertise is not cheap, but it shows culture and knowledge, as the wearer was able to find and assess that expertise. To a Nilfgaardian, that is far more impressive than showing up looking like one fell into a vat of dye.”

“Sure,” said Geralt. “Maybe. Or maybe when it comes to clothes, Nilfgaardians all have a stick stuck up their--ow! Watch those pins!”

It took well over an hour for the tailor to finish. Geralt stayed mostly quiet, and managed to avoid any more jabs. 

“The first set of clothes will be done by tomorrow,” Mererid said as the tailor packed up his gear. “More to be completed within the following weeks and months.”

“Months? You’ve got to be kidding me.” If his wardrobe was being created over a series of months, then Emhyr was clearly planning for his visit to last at least a year, if not longer. That wasn’t quite what Geralt had had in mind when he’d agreed to stay.

“Art takes time,” said the tailor sullenly before disappearing out the door. Geralt hadn’t made any new friends today, it seemed.

“The gentleman won’t be in want of outfits, never fear. Though regretfully none shall be ready in time for tonight,” Mererid said. “The un-tailored suit from your last visit will have to do.”

“What’s happening tonight? I thought the dinner with Madam what’s-her-face wasn’t until the end of the month.”

“Tonight is dinner with His Imperial Highness, the Princess Cirilla, and the Princess’ fiance General Voorhis.” Mererid’s face clearly said that Geralt was unworthy of the honor. “At eight. I’ll be here thirty minutes prior to help the gentleman dress and groom himself, and to assist him in finding the location in a timely fashion.”

“Great,” said Geralt through gritted teeth. “It’s a date.”

* * *

Despite Geralt’s threats, the barber showed up in the afternoon. Someone must have warned him of Geralt’s feelings about being shaved because he came gripping his blades with the grim determination of a soldier marching into his final battle.

“I’m not actually going to fight you, you know,” Geralt said. “Just...leave at least some of the beard, okay? Most of it, if you can stomach it.” 

In the end, the barber did leave most of the beard. He left most of Geralt’s hair, too, merely trimming and chopping off the bits that had grown back unevenly after the haircut Vlodimir had given him. Geralt ended their appointment looking more or less like he’d started it, only sharper, somehow, like his rough edges had been honed.

With nothing to do until dinner, he headed over to the training grounds and whiled away a solid hour or so beating up the training dummies. The palace’s soldiers hung around the edges of the courtyard, pretending like they weren’t all just gawking at him. Geralt gave one particularly green looking recruit a nod, and chuckled as the guy hurriedly turned back to his private conversation--a conversation in which everyone had just so happened to position themselves with views of Geralt.

Mindful of the audience, Geralt avoided signs and fancy stuff, instead keeping to the basics. It was less satisfying than showing off would be, but smarter. He usually played his cards close to his chest when it came to his abilities--his game of Gwent last night with Emhyr being the sole, very stupid, exception. 

In the cold, sober light of day, Geralt kicked himself for the slip up. He should have played dumb and let Emhyr win without a fight. 

With the power of the entire Nilfgaardian empire at his disposal, Emhyr was possibly one of the most dangerous humans Geralt had ever met. Even if a person escaped the clutches of its military, Nilfgaard had the political and trade power to pressure other countries into making said person’s life difficult. It was far better, far safer, for Emhyr to think of Geralt as a simple brute. If the time came when they were no longer reluctant allies, but enemies, Geralt would need every advantage he could get.

But when it came time for dinner, Geralt tucked his strongest Gwent deck into his pocket. Just in case.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ope, work ate my life and I didn't get the drawing done that I had planned for this chapter. Will hopefully come back to it and add it in later!

He’d finished his work out with time to spare, so instead of waiting for Mererid to lead him to the dinner, he left early, retracing the route he’d taken the night before. He wore his nicest witcher clothes (a linen shirt and breeches from his favorite armor set), leaving the apparently ill-fitting Nilfgaardian outfit from earlier where it lay, folded on his bed. 

Childish? Maybe. Satisfying? Definitely.

A couple guards stood outside Emhyr’s room, but if they had any opinions on his lack of fashion they kept it to themselves. They didn’t even glare at him or mutter to each other in Nilfgaardian--being the foster father of the princess came with some additional respect, it seemed. Neither of them moved to stop him when he approached, and they didn’t say a word as he opened the door. They were carefully avoiding eye contact with him, which was a bit weird, but better than being spit on, so Geralt shrugged and entered Emhyr’s suite.

The sitting room had the fire lit, but was empty. Through a doorway Geralt could see the dining area, set for four, also empty. 

Because of course Ciri wasn’t here early, because Ciri actually had a life and things to do besides find petty ways to irritate Emhyr’s chamberlain. Unlike Geralt, who was now stuck in Emhyr’s rooms alone and feeling pretty damn awkward about the whole stupid situation. 

The guards wouldn’t have let him wander around Emhyr’s quarters if there were no one here, though. He focused his witcher senses and followed the sound of a pen scratching over paper to a door on the far side of the suite. 

The sounds were coming from what turned out to be a fairly cozy little office. Emhyr was sitting at a desk behind a small mountain of papers, his face a mask of concentration as he wrote. Without looking up or pausing his quill, he motioned Geralt in.

“Good evening, witcher. You may as well take a seat, as I don’t expect Cirilla will join us until closer to dinner time.”

And that was about as close to saying, “The fuck are you doing here so early?” as Emhyr was likely to get. 

Geralt sighed and sat down in one of the beautifully carved, highly polished, horribly uncomfortable chairs in front of Emhyr’s desk. Because making awkward small talk with Emhyr wasn’t unpleasant enough, apparently he had to do it was having bits of his back carved out by the work of some sadistic woodworker. 

Emhyr glanced up at him briefly. “I see you were able to find time to meet with the barber,” he said. “I trust his services met your expectations.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Since the tailor’s services apparently did not, please inform my chamberlain and he will help you find a suitable alternative.”

Well, that was a milder rebuke than he was going to get from Mererid. “I like my clothes how they are,” said Geralt.

“And I prefer my bathing robe to my mantle of state, but I don’t wear it to dinner events.”

Geralt grinned at the mental picture that produced. “Maybe you should. Half the palace would be running around in bath robes by the end of the day, saying it was the next big fashion statement.”

The corner of Emhyr’s mouth twitched in what might, if Geralt squinted, have been a smile. “And the other half would be saying it was evidence I’d gone insane, and using it to depose me,” Emhyr said, tapping his quill against the side of the inkwell and setting it down in its holder. He re-read the parchment he’d been working on, then rolled it up, sealing it with wax stamped with his ring. 

He rang a small bell on the side of his desk, and a servant appeared seconds later in the doorway. “Take this to the Senate, and instruct the kitchen to bring something to tide us over until dinner,” Emhyr said.

The servant took the parchment and zipped off, and Emhyr turned his full attention to Geralt. He was silent for a minute, his fingers steepled on his desk, while he assessed Geralt with a cold, unamused stare.

If Geralt felt the vague urge to squirm beneath it, well, that was because of the awful chair.

“It can’t be gold,” said Emhyr slowly, thoughtfully. “If that was what you wanted, you could have asked for it last night when we discussed your terms for staying. You surely know I would have agreed.”

“What? I don’t need money,” said Geralt. He really didn’t. He had an embarrassing amount stashed away from his adventures in Toussaint, and now the vineyard was bringing in money too, and there were only so many times a week you could repair armor.

“So you said yesterday. But if you had a condition for staying that you thought too outrageous to ask for outright, and instead thought to ask later, with the pressure of my daughter's expectations on the line, then you should know that you are playing a dangerous game.” 

“With the pressure of--shit, I didn’t tell Ciri I was staying just so I could threaten to leave and disappoint her if you didn’t give me money. For fuck’s sake.”

Emhyr’s jaw tightened. “I already said I knew you weren’t after gold. So my question to you, witcher,” he said, hissing the title like a snake about to strike, “is what _ do _you need? What is so big that you felt you couldn’t ask for it upfront, but so precious that you’re willing to risk using my daughter’s heart as collateral to get it?”

Geralt stared at him for a moment, incredulous. Part of him wondered how Emhyr could imagine he’d be capable of something like that, except that was what life at the court was like, wasn’t it? This was the kind of cruel, manipulative bullshit that Emhyr lived and breathed, day in and day out, and if Geralt thought about that too long he might start to feel sorry for the man. “What makes you think I’m here to ask for anything?” Geralt asked.

Emhyr raised an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to believe that you arrived an hour before dinner because...what, you’d lost track of time? Or you wanted the pleasure of my company? Please, spare us both the act.”

“I’m not an hour early. Half an hour, maybe. Forty-five minutes, tops.”

“Geralt.”

Geralt sighed. “And if I’d said I arrived early to avoid Mererid?”

That earned him a slow blink. “Then I’d say you were either an idiot, or very good at pretending to be one.”

“Well, I’m not arguing that.” Because fuck, what had he expected to happen when he showed up early? He hadn’t given it much thought. If he’d imagined the evening at all, which he really hadn’t, it had been one where he showed up, ate when the food came, and then left when he felt like it. But this was dinner with the Emperor, not a pub crawl with Ciri, and now Geralt was stuck in a room with an angry emperor all evening, so yeah, ’idiot’ sounded about right.

Emhyr said nothing, just watched him. He reminded Geralt of a cat--content to sit and wait quietly for hours for the mouse to make the wrong move.

But Geralt wasn’t that patient, and he wasn’t a mouse, and he sure as fuck wasn’t going to sit in this horrible chair having a staring contest with Emhyr for the rest of the hour. 

He stood up. “I didn’t come here to ask you for anything, except for maybe a round or two of Gwent,” he said. “You don’t have to believe me. I know you don’t. I don’t care. Now I’m going to go find a chair that was built with actual humans’ asses in mind, and I’m going to sit in it, and I’m going to wait for Ciri. You want to join me and play cards? Fine. You want to plot and scheme in here? Fine.”

He walked back into the sitting room. There was already a platter of fancy cheese and those thin little meat slices waiting by the table where they’d played cards last night, so he sat there and nibbled on the food and definitely didn’t sulk.

Emhyr didn’t join him immediately. Geralt could hear him shuffling papers around and writing notes for a couple minutes before there was the scrape of a heavy chair sliding back.

“What faction?” said Emhyr, resigned, as he sat in the seat next to Geralt. He still looked suspicious, but he was clearly willing to play along while he tried to figure out Geralt’s long game.

“Surprise me.”

* * *

When Ciri and Morvran arrived, it was to a spirited debate and a final round of Gwent where Emhyr was ahead, which in itself wasn’t a surprise, but only by five, which was.

“Novigrad isn’t going to lay down and spread its legs for you. It wouldn’t even do that for Redania and--dammit.” Geralt frowned as Emhyr laid down a card that crippled the ranged weapons.

“I don’t expect it to embrace Nilfgaard,” said Emhyr, surveying his cards calmly, like he hadn’t just crushed Geralt’s army. “However, the Electoral Collegiate would have to be mad not to realize that their siege, while impressive, will ultimately end in defeat. They have no more mages, a populace that has been decimated and demoralized by Radovid’s witch hunts, and no allies. Would they imagine I’d pass over the biggest port city in the world when the odds of success were so far in my favor?”

“Um,” said Ciri from the doorway.

“Don’t need to lecture me on how fucked they are,” said Geralt, playing a card of his own. It took out two of Emhyr’s heaviest hitters--good, but not good enough. “All I’m saying is that they don’t see it like that. Novigrad has never fallen, so they think it never will.”

“It hasn’t fallen, until it has. You could say the same for every city.” said Emhyr, laying down his last card. Geralt sighed and began to pick his deck back up. Not an embarrassing defeat, but he hadn’t done as well as last night, either.

“Geralt?” Ciri was looking between him and Emhyr. Behind her, Morvran was staring at them in open disbelief.

“Hey Ciri,” said Geralt, walking over to give her a hug. When she stepped back, she was still looking at him strangely.

“Are you...okay?” she asked. She looked at Emhyr. They exchanged polite nods, and Morvran belatedly remembered to drop into a bow. 

“Other than getting my ass handed to me in Gwent? Yeah, fine.”

“Allright,” she said slowly. She eyed the table where they’d been playing. “Er, was that supposed to be appetizers?”

“There’s still some left,” said Geralt. “Help yourself.”

“It looks like a wild animal attacked it,” said Morvran.

“Witcher metabolism.”

Ciri rolled her eyes. “And I suppose your witcher metabolism doesn’t extend to olives? I notice there’s still a few of those left.”

“Don’t like the pits.”

Emhyr stood up, looking equal parts exasperated and amused, and motioned for them to move to the dining area. “There’s no need to pick through Geralt’s scraps-”

“Hey, you helped, too.”

“-as the kitchen will be bringing the first course soon,” Emhyr said. “Now Cirilla, you must tell me how your lessons are progressing.”

“As if my tutors didn’t report every word I said directly to you.”

“Humor me.”

Ciri sighed. “Well, Professor var Emst says I’m pretty much up to date on the last hundred years of history. Learned that all from Vesemir.” She flopped down into one of the dining chairs. Morvran sat next to her, his movements proper and restrained. 

Geralt nodded approvingly. “First hand account. Can’t beat that.”

Emhyr raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, that would explain the… colorful differences between Cirilla’s historical knowledge and the official books.”

“More swears and sex,” Geralt explained for Morvran’s sake. Morvran nodded at him, wide eyed.

“Yeah, so I’m good there,” continued Ciri. “But when it comes to the lineage of the nobles and their absurdly complicated family histories …”

It turned out the nobles of Nilfgaard had intricate, interweaving, and often conflicting narratives, and in order to navigate the political waters of the present Ciri would need working knowledge of all of them. Today’s lesson had apparently centered on ten houses, each with different accounts of a dinner party that had gone wrong over a hundred years ago, which had left three people dead, caused one person to be disinherited, and had lead to someone--there was still debate over who--dyeing all the white horses in the host’s mansion a bright blue.

“So last week when de Lange pulled out a handkerchief with a blue horse embroidered on the corner, it was an obscure but insulting slap in the face to the Reuvers, who are now considering a political alliance with the de Lange’s rivals, and all their immediate allies are joining suit. And all because the oldest Reuver daughter married a guy from a merchant family, violating some unspoken assumption that she would marry a de Lange son,” said Ciri, throwing up her arms. “Geralt, I never thought I’d miss the day when people just said, “Fuck you” when they were pissed.”

“But the de Lange’s aren’t just pissed,” said Emhyr. He was watching Ciri closely--evaluating her, Geralt realized.

“No, they’re embarrassed, I get that,” said Ciri. “The only de Lange of marriageable age is, well…”

“Not most people’s first choice of suitor,” said Morvran.

Ciri nodded. “An inbred disaster, yeah. So he’s already a bit of a sore spot for them. And choosing a merchant over him is effectively saying that even a commoner is better than him, which is true. Pretty much anyone would be. I even think some drowners beat him out. He sets the bar real low, but still. The de Langes feel humiliated and hurt, and now they’re tipping the balance if the Senate against us because of it.”

“And what do you think?” asked Emhyr.

Servants began filing through the door with trays of food, and there was a pause while their goblets were filled and little plates of water were placed in front of them. Everyone else was dipping their fingers in them, so Geralt followed suit. A small cloud of dirt and grime filled his bowl, and okay, maybe he should have taken a bath before he got here, because now instead of being dusty, his fingers were dripping a watery mud. He tried to inconspicuously dab them dry on the table cloth, but where his hands touched the white fabric, they left little trails of brown.

Rubbing at the stains only made them wider. Luckily there was a bread bowl near him that he was able to grab, and, while helping himself to a roll, casually reposition so that its base covered the mess. 

Geralt glance around to see if anyone had noticed. Morvran was engrossed in his own meticulous finger cleaning, as if his hands weren’t already sparkling, and Ciri seemed lost in thought pondering Emhyr’s question. And Emhyr…

Emhyr was staring straight at him. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were crinkling up at the corners in a way that suggested he was trying very hard not to laugh. Geralt glared at him, daring him to say anything, which only made his eyes crinkle more.

“I think,” said Ciri, once the finger washing dishes had been replaced by soup bowls, “that the Reuver’s were acting out of desperation, not out of any dislike of de Lange son. I heard some--incredibly boring--gossip about how the dress the Reuver daughter wore to a recent party was last year’s cut, and there were complaints from dinner guests over the quality of wine they were served when visiting the Reuver manor. It’s possible the Reuver’s investments in Ofierian imports have been a failure, and they’re hoping that allying themselves with a rich merchant family will save them from their debtors.”

“Close. Their import business has had a modicum of success. Not enough success, however, to offset the head of household’s chronic bad luck at the horse races,” said Emhyr. “But the real question is how to fix the imbalance of the Senate.”

Geralt ate his soup in silence as Ciri and Emhyr hammered out a strategy to smooth the de Lange’s ruffled feathers while also winning back the Reuvers. As much as Ciri complained about the politics of court, it looked to Geralt like she’d taken to it as quickly as she’d taken to her witcher lessons. She might lack patience and refinement, sure--there was a memorable moment during the conversation where she gestured at Emhyr with a spoon that was still full of soup--but Geralt could see how, with more study and some experience under her belt, she’d make an outstanding politician.

Geralt looked over at Morvran. He wasn’t talking much, either. Instead he was watching Ciri with a dazed sort of fascination, barely remembering to eat his soup. Geralt wasn’t sure Ciri was sold on Morvran, yet, but he’d clearly fallen for her. 

Morvran hadn’t done much to impress Geralt. He was probably at least semi-competent as a general if Emhyr had him in that position, but in conversations he’d always come across as the standard aristocrat with his head up his own ass. But if he genuinely admired Ciri, that was at least one point in his favor for good taste. 

It took most of the first course for Emhyr and Ciri to agree on a course of action, but in the end Emhyr was nodding and not-smiling in a way that Geralt figured meant he secretly jumping for joy. 

“So it’s settled: we’ll let the trade agreement on imported spices go through to satisfy the Reuvers, and to end this spat before it becomes a feud, you’ll dance with the de Lange boy at Madam Paskamp’s ball,” he said. “And Geralt, you’ll dance with the Reuver daughter.”

“What? Why?” Geralt had tuned out the past few minutes of their scheming, and was now regretting it. 

“As Ciri’s foster father, you’re too important for her to say no to. But as a Nordling witcher, and a commoner, it’ll be mildly humiliating for her to say yes,” said Emhyr.

“Great,” said Geralt through gritted teeth. 

Emhyr nodded. “Your attention will help take the Reuvers down a few pegs, but not so much that they’d take political action. Between the Reuver daughter being the punch line for a week or so at court, and Ciri’s personal attention to the de Lange’s son, the de Langes should feel vindicated.”

Geralt turned his frown on Ciri, who just laughed. “Ciri,” he said.

“Oh, don’t whine,” said Ciri.

“But I don’t dance,” said Geralt in what was definitely not a whine. “You know that. I’d probably get the steps wrong and break her toes by accident, and then her family would declare a blood feud on you and we’d be back to where we started. Waste of time. Have Morvran dance with her.”

“That wouldn’t work. Getting a dance from Morvran would be an honor,” said Emhyr, and Morvran preened a bit.

“Well then, you can attend my dance classes!” said Ciri brightly. “That way you’ll know the steps. Feel free to mess them up enough to embarrass her, but not enough to break anything, yeah?”

“Excellent idea,” agreed Emhyr with a pleased glint in his eye, and dammit, he’d been planning on chucking Geralt into Ciri’s lessons this whole time. That had probably been the point of this dinner. “He can attend your etiquette lessons as well. If he’s going to spend any amount of time in the court, he should have the skills to navigate it without unduly embarrassing you.”

Ciri’s grin dimmed at the mention of etiquette classes, but came back with a vengeance at the prospect of Geralt joining her. “Oooh, Geralt, you can learn how to fold a napkin properly-”

“No.”

“-and how to make polite small talk-”

“_No _.”

“-and how to pick out the perfect outfit for a hundred different occasions, and--actually, you might really need that one,” said Ciri, frowning at his shirt. “Wait, is that the shirt with the fleas?”

“...No.”

“_ Geralt _.”

“It has fleas?” said Morvran, inching his chair away from Geralt. “You wore a shirt with _ fleas _to dinner with His Imperial Highness?”

Geralt shrugged. “I thought it matched the pants.”

There was a pause while everyone considered his white shirt and leather pants combo.

“You’re coming to my etiquette classes,” said Ciri after a moment. “If you don’t, you’re going to get yourself killed, or get me killed, or start a war.”

Geralt frowned, but he knew when he’d been beat. 

* * *

Geralt showed up to his first etiquette class in a foul mood.

“Geralt, you’re late! You almost missed-” Ciri started saying, then stopped when she turned around and saw him.

“Don’t,” said Geralt.

Ciri, to her credit, didn’t say anything. Though from the way her hands were held over her mouth and her shoulders were shaking, her silence had more to do with trying not to laugh than with her having any respect for Geralt’s shredded dignity. 

Geralt gave her time to compose herself. It took a minute. 

He couldn’t blame her. Both his doublet’s shoulders and his pant legs were poofed up to an absurd degree. Skin tight hose and sleeves extended beyond the giant puffs, making Geralt look like he was composed of several large candy pops stuck together. To top it all off, Mererid had wrestled him into a large ruffled collar that extended a good six inches out from his neck. It’s only redeeming feature was that it hid most of his outfit from him, though the shoulder pads still mocked him from his peripheral vision. 

It was thoroughly ridiculous. Plus, the starch in the ruff itched worse than the fleas ever had.

“The chamberlain is punishing me,” he said by way of explanation as Ciri wiped tears from her eyes.

“Well, yes.”

“And the tailor hates me.”

Ciri nodded. “Clearly. Though I hear you were threatening the staff? That might be why. Maybe our etiquette lessons can start there: don’t do that.”

“I wasn’t-” Geralt started, then sighed. By now the entire court probably thought he was rampaging through the palace, waving his swords and snarling at anyone who came too close. And all because he was a bit snippy when he said no to a shave. Fantastic.

The etiquette instructor, who had been hovering politely at the edges of their conversation, took the opportunity to step in.

“Perhaps this can be a learning experience,” the woman said brightly. She was a matronly, sweet looking woman, which came as a surprise; from Ciri’s descriptions of her classes up to this point, Geralt had imagined her more as a wyvern in a dress. “In the future, when you encounter an outfit that is,” she paused and gave Geralt a quick once over, “unexpected, you can comment on its uniqueness-”

“That’s a word for it,” muttered Geralt.

“-or avoid the topic completely. Let’s try your morning greeting again. This time, instead of laughing, try greeting him and talking about a suitable topic for the morning hours. The weather, perhaps.”

The instructor had Geralt leave the room and then re-enter, bowing to Ciri--”The man always bows first!”--and having Ciri return his bow with a polite head nod--”the Princess curtsies to no one except his Imperial Highness!”--before moving on to small talk.

“I do hope the rain clears up soon,” said Ciri. “I’d hoped to, uh, walk in the gardens and smell flowers and stuff later today.”

“Yeah. I was gonna clean out a rotfiend infestation after lunch, but the sewers are always extra juicy in weather like this so I might have to give it a pass.”

Ciri nodded. Her instructor sighed.

“That was a good attempt,” the woman said, a look of steely positivity on her face. “Let’s practice it again. Sir Geralt, this time try not to roll your eyes while bowing, and your Highness, sticking your tongue out at a subject while he makes obeisance to you is generally frowned upon. For conversational topics, let’s talk about breakfast. Avoid mentioning the sewers.”

Their second attempt went better, though the instructor still looked pained every time Geralt talked. After that they moved on to the myriad of ways to address nobles and diplomats of varying ranks, and they finished by practicing polite ways to disengage from conversations (turning around and just walking in the other direction was not the proper way to do things, Geralt was informed). 

As Ciri left for her next lesson covering the history of the aristocracy, Geralt peeled off towards the outskirts of the palace. He had a few hours to kill before his dance lesson, and if he could use that time to also kill a few rotfiends and drowners (and perhaps ruin this outfit in the process), then all the better.

He hadn’t gotten more than a few hallways towards the exit, however, when a noblewoman ambushed him.

“Sir Geralt! I’ve been looking all over for you. I almost didn’t recognize you in, ah,” her eyes trailed down Geralt’s new outfit, and she seemed lost for words for a moment. “In your lovely new Nilfgaardian clothing. You’ve certainly embraced the spirit of dressing up, I see.”

Geralt sighed and crossed his arms, which probably would have looked more imposing without the shoulder poofs. “What do you want?”

“Why, to discuss your attendance at my ball, of course!” she said. She hooked her arm into his elbow and began steering him towards a nearby room. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Madam Margriet Paskamp. I was so thrilled when you accepted my invitation! I’ve never met a witcher, and having Her Highness’ foster father at any event is, of course, a great honor.”

The room he was politely but firmly steered into was another noble suite. It wasn’t as big or expensively furnished as Emhyr’s, but what it lacked in scale it made up for in expensive furnishings. Statues and paintings filled every space not already taken up by plush furniture. Several nobles were already gathered on couches, chatting and drinking tea.

Margriet Paskamp herself was decked out in jewels, to the point where Geralt suspected she might be toeing the line of being too gaudy for Nilfgaardian fashion. She looked to be about in her forties, with a friendly face and smile lines, but when she looked at Geralt, the calculating glint in her eyes reminded him of Emhyr. 

“I hear you’re going to be taking some classes to prepare for my little party,” she said, motioning for him to take a seat. “It’s simply darling that you’re so enthusiastic. One doesn’t often get guests so dedicated that they study for the event.”

“News travels fast,” said Geralt. A servant promptly rushed out and pressed a cup of tea into his hands, along with a small plate of appetizers, and he was guided to an empty couch next to the other nobles. 

He frantically thought back to his lesson on exiting conversations without starting a hundred year political feud. “Er, as much as I appreciate your time and company, I gotta go do...something else. But thank you."

The nobles around him tittered, and Margriet beamed at him like he was a dog that had just adorably bungeled a trick.

“Oh, nonsense, I insist,” she said, and he could just stand up and walk out, consequences be damned, but Ciri and Emhyr’s plan for restoring order seemed to hinge on him not getting himself thrown out of this woman’s ball.

Apparently Geralt was going to have a tea party. He sat down.

Margriet sat next to him, rather closer than necessary given the size of the couch. “I must know, how did your first lesson go? It’s hard for us to imagine any other way of living, but our ways must be so foreign to you, with your being a Nordling, and not of a noble family.”

“Uh, yeah.”

The nobles watched him expectantly for a moment.

“Lesson went fine,” he elaborated. 

They asked him more questions about his life in Nilfgaard and about Ciri--all of which he answered with non-committal grunts and shrugs--before they grew bored and began chattering about court events. There was an upcoming horse race that had everyone scrambling to find the best outfit to show up their neighbor, and a masquerade that someone had planned for the same week as Margriet’s ball, about which she was clearly irritated. 

“That Reiners boy is just trying to steal my thunder,” she said, sniffing. “Everyone knows he can’t generate excitement for an event on his own, so he’s piggy-backing off of me.”

Geralt finished his tea and tried to slip out as the discussion turned to new hat fashions, but standing up only served to draw attention to him.

“Oh, do have more!” said Margriet, calling a servant over to refill his cup. “I do hope all this information hasn’t been overwhelming for you. I really never meant to cause you any stress by inviting you to my ball or to tea; I just wanted to get to know you better.”

“I’m not stressed.”

“Really? You must be very brave, then,” said one of the other noblewomen. She was probably Ciri’s age or younger, and she stared at him with wide eyes. “I would just die if I had to go to a ball where I didn’t know the dances or customs. Can you imagine? It would be so humiliating!”

“I’ll live,” said Geralt through gritted teeth.

Margriet gave the other noblewoman a repoving look. “Sir Geralt is studying very hard to learn those customs and dances. I’m sure he’ll do wonderfully.”

“Doesn’t matter if he learns every dance and every bow, though. Let’s be realistic here,” said a nobleman. He had a hazy look about his eyes and a slight slur to his words that made Geralt think he’d been drinking more than tea.

“Jurrian,” said Margriet, frowning.

“It’s true though,” Jurrian continued. “He can act as proper as he likes, but the second he opens his mouth--bam! Barbarian consonants all over the place. His Nilfgaardian is atrocious. It doesn’t matter how fancy they dress him up if he talks like he should be living in a cave.”

“Well, he certainly won’t learn to behave like a proper Nilfgaardian gentleman from you. Sir Geralt, I do apologize,” said Margriet. 

Geralt shrugged. He’d been called worse.

“Margriet could help with that, though,” said the younger woman. “She’s studied elocution for decades-”

“You’re making me sound old, dear.”

“-and she even met her past husband while tutoring him to hide his Toussaint accent! If anyone could help you sound civilized, it’s her!”

Jurian laughed. “Not even Margriet could teach him to pass for a Nilfgaardian noble. Have you heard how he growls? He can barely form words.”

“I don’t appreciate you casting aspersions on my abilities or insulting my guests,” said Margriet, frowning. “I could teach anyone proper Nilfgaardian, even him.”

“Hey,” said Geralt. 

“Prove it,” said Jurian. 

“I will. He’ll be speaking so well by the end of the month that, if he decides to attend Reiners’ clearly inferior masquerade, no one will be able to tell he’s a Nordling. Hide the white hair with a hat, hide the face with a mask, hide the accent with my help, and he’ll pass as a noble without a problem. Isn’t that right, Geralt?”

Geralt gave her a level stare. “Is that why you ambushed me and dragged me to tea? So you could maneuver me into private lessons?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Margriet. She looked taken aback, but when Geralt continued to look unimpressed, she sighed. “Alright. I had hoped to get in a word about my lessons while I had you over. It’s Princess Cirilla, you see. There have been...whispers.”

“People say that since a barbarian raised her, that’s all she’ll ever be, no matter how royal her blood,” said the young woman in hushed tones, as if even uttering the words would cause Emhyr to spring out from behind the curtains and have her executed.

“And when you talk, and mangle our grammar and pronunciation, it...well, it reflects badly on her,” said Margriet. “We understand that it’s not fair, and that you’re doing your best. We know you’re a loving father. But if you want what’s best for her, it might be best for you to remove your negative influence from her reputation. You could do that by leaving-”

“Not gonna happen,” said Geralt, glaring at her.

“I never expected you would. That’s why I offered the elocution lessons. Honestly, I was a bit surprised when His Imperial Highness didn’t contact me for that very thing--I am very good at what I do.” She smiled and patted him on the shoulder. Her hand lingered in a way that might have been seductive if it hadn’t been resting on the shoulder poof.

“Why are you so invested in Ciri?” he asked, moving out of her reach.

“She’s the future of Nilfgaard: more open minded, less entrenched in tradition. Able to compromise,” Margriet said. “I want to see her on the throne safely, and I think her odds improve if you’re acting to lift her up, instead of weighing her down. We can meet after your etiquette lessons, starting tomorrow.”

“For Ciri,” said Geralt, sighing.

“For Ciri,” Margriet echoed. She smiled, and Geralt had the sinking feeling he would have been safer in the sewers with the rotfiends.

* * *

To Geralt’s surprise, dancing lessons were the least painful part of the day. He already knew how to move his body in intricate motions for fighting, so it was mostly a matter of memorizing steps and timing them to a melody. It was still difficult, but not as difficult as trying to navigate the labyrinth that was Nilfgaardian conversation. Even the instructor had positive things to say.

“You’ll be caught up to Princess Cirilla, soon,” the dance teacher said as Geralt finished up the last couple steps in the number. 

Geralt grinned at Ciri, who rolled her eyes. 

“Please, you’re almost a hundred years old. Learning a dance at this point isn’t impressive,” Ciri said. “Plus, you need to lighten up out there, Geralt. You dance like you’re trying to kill your partner.”

“We can work on that next time,” the instructor said. “I would remind the Princess that at her first dance lesson, she got carried away and swept the legs out from under her dance partner when he tried to dip her.”

“Ha,” said Geralt.

“He received a bad knock to the head when he hit the ground, as I remember, and had to be excused for the day,” the instructor continued.

Geralt grinned at Ciri. “See?” he said, pointing to his dance partner. “Not maimed at all!”

“Yeah, great job,” said Ciri. “Now let’s get out of here. I’m starving.”

Ciri split for a dinner with Morvran and some of the other generals. Geralt figured he’d hit up a tavern outside the palace, but he had to take care of this outfit first.

He popped into Emhyr’s quarters on his way to change. The guards let him in without any questions--apparently he’d been granted free access to the Imperial chambers along with Ciri--and he found Emhyr working at the same desk he’d been at the night before. He had a plate of food next to him that had hardly been touched. 

“There’s no family dinner tonight,” said Emhyr, without looking up. “Why are you here? Have you decided to finally tell me what it is you’re after?”

“Not after anything, except for you having a word with your chamberlain.”

“Oh?” Emhyr glanced up, then quickly back down as he was apparently overcome by a coughing fit.

“Yeah, yeah, get it out,” said Geralt. He slumped into one of the desk’s chairs and frowned at Emhyr. “I’ve already heard it all. Now, I can make sure this outfit is damaged beyond any hope of repair, but I can’t stop the tailor from whipping out more. I’m hoping you can help with that.”

“I had heard reports that your new clothing was less than could have been hoped for. After seeing the outfit in person, however, I’m afraid this is something you’ll have to sort out yourself. You must have grievously hurt the man’s feelings. Perhaps a personal apology would be in order?”

“Emhyr, come on,” said Geralt.

Emhyr opened his mouth, then paused, clearly taken aback. Right--Geralt was supposed to call him Your Imperial Highness. He supposed only a handful of people were on a first name basis with Emhyr, and Geralt certainly wasn’t one of them. 

But Emhyr didn’t correct him. Instead he shook his head after a moment, almost smiling.

“No, you’re on your own. I’ve given you a tutor for etiquette if you need help formulating an apology. Between that and your formidable problem solving experience as a witcher, I’m sure you can resolve this before too many more of these--hmm...creations--are produced. You will be expected to wear any outfit he does make, of course. It would be criminal to throw out clothes that were personally gifted to you by the Emperor. What would people say?”

“That I have taste?” said Geralt.

“I assure you, people are not gossiping behind your back that you have taste.”

Geralt flipped him off and stood up, then hesitated. “Is that your dinner?” he asked, pointing towards the plate of food. It looked cold, with congealed gravy and limp greens.

“What else could you imagine it would be?”

Geralt shrugged. “Just thought last night was what your dinners were like. Or that you’d be out wining and dining the nobles.”

“If I ate like that every night, my enemies would have no need to assassinate me; I’d have died from a heart attack years ago,” said Emhyr dryly. “And I suspect Cirilla inherited her dislike of small talk and gossip from me. Although it can be useful, I see no need to subject myself to it around the clock.”

“So your options are small talk or silence?”

Emhyr raised an eyebrow at him. “Your point?”

“Nothing. Enjoy your quiet evening,” Geralt said. As he left, he spared a quick look back. 

When Emhyr was in a crowd, he always seemed larger than life. People gravitated to him or avoided him, but either way, he was at the center. Now, sitting alone by the lamp with his untouched dinner cold beside him and a pile of work left to do in front of him, he looked awfully small.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Went back and added a sketch for chapter 2, and I'm aiming to have little sketches here and there from now on--at least, I will if work will just chill for a minute and give me some time :D

Elocution lessons with Margriet turned out to be held in private, which was a small mercy--Geralt had half expected to have a whole gaggle of nobles as an audience for his lessons, drinking tea and giggling at his attempts. But when his etiquette lessons were over, he found Margriet waiting in her quarters alone.

“I see you haven’t made up with the tailor yet,” she said, eyeing his outfit.

Today his pants weren’t poofy--they were skin tight. And gold. And shiny. His ruff had also been upgraded to a larger, frillier version. 

When he’d seen it, Geralt had caved and arrived early to lessons to ask for help drafting his apology. He had a scroll that he’d handwritten with the tutor’s help, and now all he had to do was track the man down and make him accept it. Odds were he’d have at least another day of humiliation, as the outfit for tomorrow was probably already in progress, but the tutor had assured him that the apology note should be good enough to soothe any Nilfgaardian’s temper.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is my favorite monster-killing armor,” said Geralt, taking a seat across from her. “They see it and laugh so hard that I can just walk up and stick them with my swords.”

Margriet smiled and waved a servant in with several bowls of food. Geralt watched the food with anticipation. He’d worked up a healthy appetite with all the bowing and scraping practicing he’d had to do, and he’d missed breakfast on top of that, but when he reached for a bowl of fruit, she stopped him.

“It’s not for eating,” she said. “It’s for practice.”

“Practice?”

She scooped up the bowl of fruit and picked out a handful of grapes. “You mush your words together into one long growl. You need to crisp up your consonants, sharpen your vowels. I’ve found working around impediments can help strengthen the tongue and firm up the lips. It’s not dissimilar to working out with weights tied to your ankles and wrists. Now open up and try not to swallow.”

“Uh,” said Geralt, and she used the opportunity to start stuffing grapes into his mouth.

“If you accidentally crush one, we have more, but try to see if you can keep them all intact through the end of the lesson,” she said. She pushed one last grape into his mouth, her finger lingering uncomfortably long on his lips. “I used to use marbles--impossible to crush--but my poor late husband kept swallowing them by accident. Now, say, ‘Delighted dogs swim swiftly in the Alba’ for me.”

Geralt stared at her, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s, and a line of drool beginning to trickle down his chin. “What?” he said, though it came out more like, “Wrrph?”

“You heard me. Enunciate as best you can.”

The next three hours were a hellish cycle of Geralt trying to make a word, any word, understandable around the grapes, failing miserably, and then starting again. Margriet watched him patiently, eating her lunch--because apparently some of that food wasn’t just for practice--and saying, “Again. Try to distinguish between the ‘a’s’ and the ‘o’s’ this time,” or, “Tap your tongue firmly on your teeth for those hard consonants’,” as if it wasn’t all completely pointless.

He crushed about half his grapes, which disappointed Margriet, but as it was the only lunch he got he couldn’t be too bothered about it.

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” she said as the lesson drew to a close.

“Like hell we will,” said Geralt, massaging his jaw. His cheeks ached and his lips were sore from trying to hold in all the grapes. “That was the biggest waste of time-”

“See? There’s already improvement,” said Margriet, clapping her hands in delight. “Can’t you hear it, Geralt? When you said, “waste of time,” your ‘t’s’ were much crisper! You were practically intelligible. Don’t worry, though--we’ll use a different exercise next time.”

Geralt frowned at her, or tried to, anyway. His whole face felt rubbery. He rubbed at his mouth, trying to work feeling back into it.

“Oh, you poor dear, I know that must have been awfully uncomfortable. We’ll get you some chilled wine,” cooed Margriet. She scooted closer and patted his cheek. Her eyes lowered suggestively to his lips, where he was pretty sure there was still a trickle of drool escaping, but she made an admirable attempt to look turned on by it.

Later, when dance class was wrapping up, Geralt told Ciri, “I think Madame Paskamp is trying to seduce me.”

“Hmm?” Ciri looked up from where she was buckling up her boots. She still wore her combat boots underneath her Nilfgaardian court dress, which surely pissed the tailor off, though Geralt hadn’t noticed him stuffing her into any humiliating outfits. The dance instructor, however, insisted she practice in delicate satin slippers that robbed Ciri of about three inches of height and made her incredibly cranky, probably _ because _they robbed her of three inches of height. Geralt almost wished he’d been wearing a pair of slippers, too; his dance partner was nursing sore toes today from where he’d crushed them with his steel toed boots. He couldn’t see where his feet were with the damn ruff in the way.

“Madam Paskamp?” she said, then, “Oh, yes. Probably. Did you know she tried to seduce Emhyr once?”

“But why?” said Geralt. 

“Because he’s the emperor.”

“Not Emhyr, me. If having a dance with me is enough to embarrass the Reuver daughter, then surely a horizontal dance with me would ruin Margriet.”

“Ooh, on a first name basis with her already?” 

“_Ciri _.”

“Oh fine. She probably doesn’t intend to flaunt it, at least not until you’re seen as respectable, which given today’s dance might be a while. But whether your relationship is public or not, it’s still a relationship, you know? She knows you have my ear, and if she has yours, that’s worth a lot.”

Geralt made a face, and Ciri laughed.

“Oh, shut up,” he said, sighing. “You weren’t there. She was stuffing grapes in my mouth, Ciri.”

“Poor Geralt, a beautiful woman feeding you grapes?”

“It was a lot of grapes. An unsexy number of grapes.”

“The life of a witcher is truly tragic.”

“And dangerous. I almost inhaled one. Can you imagine Lambert’s face at my funeral if that’s how I’d died?”

* * *

Geralt hadn’t intended to show up in Emhyr’s private quarters again. The man clearly valued his privacy. However…

“It didn’t work,” said Geralt, crossing his arms and glaring down at Emhyr.

Emhyr looked up, then looked down, and then kept looking down.

“My eyes are up here,” snapped Geralt, after a minute. 

Emhyr jerked his eyes back up from where they’d been fixed on Geralt’s shiny gold pants. “The talk with the tailor didn’t go well, I take it? That is a,” he paused to clear his throat, “striking outfit he made for you.”

“If by striking you mean, ‘makes me want to strike something’, then yeah. Listen, I did what you said. Went to the etiquette lady and she helped me write a very sincere sounding apology, all: ‘I’m sorry I threatened to attack your friend the barber,’ and, ‘I shouldn’t have said Nilfgaardians all have a stick up their ass about clothing, really, you make very nice stuff’. Handed it to him, and he barely skimmed it before tossing it in the trash. And while I was there I saw what he has planned for me tomorrow, Emhyr. It’s not gonna be pretty.”

“I have to admit, I’ll be impressed if he manages to top today,” said Emhyr, his eyes trailing back down to the pants.

Geralt sat down heavily in the armchair next to Emhyr. When Geralt had entered his rooms, Emhyr hadn’t been working at his desk like usual. Instead he’s been enjoying his sitting room with a large stack of books next to him, a half-empty bottle of wine on the table, and the fireplace blazing in front of him. Geralt almost felt bad for disturbing what was probably a rare evening off, but no--Emhyr was the one who’d refused to set the tailor straight, leading to a full day of Geralt prancing around in a pair of pants that even Dandelion would have considered to be a bit much. 

Geralt eyed the wine longingly, and Emhyr sighed, then motioned for him to pour himself a glass.

“Thanks,” he said, taking a long drink. “Needed that. I don’t understand what I did wrong--the tutor promised that it was the perfect NIlfgaardian apology. She even helped me rehearse the proper way to present it to him--in front of witnesses, with slightly downturned eyes, and a longer than normal bow.”

“So you’ll bow to my tailor, but not to me,” said Emhyr, exasperated. 

Geralt shrugged. “Tailor wasn’t trying to force me to.”

Emhyr considered that for a moment. “Unless,” he said, thoughtfully, “one considers those pants a form of extortion.”

“Fair point.”

“Well, no matter--I think I see where you went wrong. You said the apology was perfect for Nilfgaardians. However, the Nilfgaardian empire is a large place, with many different cultures within it. The note you wrote may have been perfect for someone raised in the Imperial Capital, but the tailor spent his formative years in Toussaint, if I remember correctly.”

“Toussaint? Fuck. I’m going to have to present him with the head of something dangerous as a trophy, aren’t I?” said Geralt, though the more he thought about it, the better that idea seemed. It was certainly more up his alley than bowing.

Emhyr hummed. “I’ve heard rumors that his future in-laws have had some trouble lately with their farm--something about mysterious property damage and missing sheep.”

“Great. I’ll find his sheep. But I’m wearing this outfit to do it, and if it gets covered in sheep shit then that’s that.”

But it was too late in the evening to head out now--the last thing he needed was to panic the tailor’s family-to-be by snooping around their house in the dark. Besides, he hadn’t eaten all day, and when Emhyr saw him eyeing the plates of food, he gestured for another serving to be brought in for Geralt. And since Geralt was already staying for a bit to finish the food, it seemed natural to pass the time with a few rounds of Gwent.

It was one of the more pleasant evenings Geralt had enjoyed in recent memory. The wine and food were good, the Gwent was challenging, and the conversation was engaging. Plus, since Emhyr talked to him in the common tongue, it was a welcome break from flailing his way through Nilfgaardian sentence structure. 

“Almost had you,” Geralt said as he packed up his deck. “If you hadn’t had that second archer-”

“If I hadn’t had it, then I would have played differently. No matter how close the point total was, you did not ‘almost have me’.”

“And if you’d played differently, I would’ve too. Might even have won.”

“Might have. But you did not.”

“Next time, though,” said Geralt, though as he was saying it, he realized that there probably wouldn’t be a next time. Emhyr had no reason to sit and play Gwent with him on a regular basis. But Emhyr was already nodding. 

“Next time,” Emhyr said slowly. He was looking at Geralt like he was still trying to figure out what Geralt was after, but he didn’t look unhappy at the thought of future games.

And as Geralt turned to leave, though, he could have sworn he caught Emhyr looking at his ass--though whether he was checking Geralt out, or was just mesmerized by the pants, Geralt couldn’t guess.

* * *

He wasn’t able to get over to the sheep farm immediately. The lessons kept him occupied for most of the next day, and when he did get out, he found Mererid waiting for him.

“His Imperial Highness requests your company for a game of Gwent,” Mererid said.

“Any chance I could change into something less humiliating first?” Geralt asked, but Mererid merely turned and lead him back to Emhyr’s quarters.

He was almost glad he hadn’t changed when he saw the look on Emhyr’s face.

“Is that a giant sun stitched to your crotch?” Emhyr said. 

“I’m very patriotic.”

Emhyr also snapped him up for a Gwent after the lessons the next day, and the day after that, until Geralt began to suspect Emhyr was preventing Geralt from fixing the tailor issue on purpose. The bastard was starting to look up from his writing desk with a damned twinkle in his eye when Geralt walked through the door, and really, Emhyr was rich enough that he could just hire a jester if he needed to laugh that badly. No reason to do it at Geralt’s expense.

The Gwent was fun, though--the best part of Geralt’s day, if he was honest with himself. So he went along with the stupid outfits until he had a full day off. Between lessons, Gwent with Emhyr, and various political events, that ended up being several weeks out, and by that point he’d accumulated enough embarrassing clothes that he had a hard time choosing which ones to drag through a sheep pen. The gold pants outfit ultimately won out, though it was a close call between it and the matching vest/legging combo that was covered in embroidery that spelled out the writ of Nilfgaardian royal rule.

When Geralt did get down to the sheep farm, however, he began to regret his choice in clothes.

“Yes, I’m positive I’m a witcher,” he said, not for the first time. 

The family gathered on the front porch looked unimpressed.

“Don’t look like a witcher,” said a middle-aged man in a rocking chair--the tailor’s future father-in-law, Geralt guessed. 

“Look at that, though, he’s got two swords,” said a young woman, most likely the tailor’s fiancee. She gave Geralt an encouraging smile. “I’m sure he’s trying very hard. Do be nice, dad.”

“Anyone can buy two swords. And witchers don’t wear shiny pants and fancy ruffs. S’not a witcher,” the man said. “He’s just some nut job. Move along and stop wasting our time.”

“Dad!”

“I have cat eyes,” said Geralt, appealing to the fiancee, and she nodded politely.

“Yes, I’m sure you do--no, no need to come closer to show me, I believe you.”

An old woman on the far side of the porch squinted blearily at Geralt. “I can see ‘em from here. They’re not cat eyes.”

“They are,” said Geralt.

“Are not.”

“Are too.”

“Grandma,” said the young woman, her teeth gritted behind her smile. “Just let him have this.”

Geralt sighed. “Listen. I’m here on behalf of the tailor--your future in-law--to solve your missing sheep problem. You want me to help or leave?”

That got the man’s attention. “On his behalf? That means we don’t pay you, right?”

Geralt nodded. 

“Well you should have lead with that,” said the old man. The family huddled for a moment, discussing their options. Geralt didn’t need enhanced witcher hearing to make out the man saying, “Well, it don’t matter if he’s not a witcher! We ain’t paying him. Got nothing to lose.”

Decision reached, they set him loose to inspect the property with the warning not to try anything funny with the sheep. Geralt stomped into the sheep pens, making sure to get lots of mud splattered on his clothing along the way. According to the father, the sheep thieves-turned-vandals had hit the farm again the previous night, which meant there should be enough fresh clues for Geralt to work with.

“Vandalism, my ass,” he said, when he rounded the corner of the barn and got his first good look at the livestock pasture. Fencing had been ripped up--not smashed, but actually pulled up out of the ground and thrown aside like it had been a mild irritant and not a heavy wooden barrier. The side of the barn facing the pasture had several large holes in it, some of which were placed fairly high up, above where a human could easily reach. 

This wasn’t the work of some bored teens. Something big had done this. The few sheep that remained eyed Geralt warily.

The footsteps leading away from the farm weren’t difficult to follow. Smashed trees and crushed bushes formed a path that would’ve been clear even without witcher senses. Geralt picked his way along it carefully, seeing signs that some of the sheep had been taken alive--a good sign, but it also meant that he might be giving up his chance to return the livestock alive if he turned back now to get more armor. 

He weighed the possibility of disappointing the tailor, and having to wear more ridiculous outfits, against the possibility of dying a gruesome death, and kept walking. Worst case scenario he’d hide, survey the monster, and come back later when he was properly geared.

That plan, however, hadn’t factored in his new sparkliness.

“No eat Fluffy,” said a voice from a clearing up ahead. It was a rock troll, on the verge of tears by the sound of it.

“Roggor found Fluffy. Roggor eat Fluffy,” a second troll, probably Roggor, explained patiently. 

Geralt crept closer, keeping to the bushes. It sounded like at least one of the sheep had survived, though for how much longer, he couldn’t guess. 

“But Fluffy good,” said the first troll, and yup, it was crying now, deep sobs like granite slabs being ground together.

“Good to eat, yes,” said Roggor.

Geralt got to the edge of the clearing, where about half the flock had apparently exploded. Entrails hung from branches, and the ground was red with blood and scraps of skin. A large cauldron was bubbling at the center of it all, and Geralt could make out a few sheep limbs sticking out of the top.

Despite the excessive amount of gore, there were also quite a few live sheep huddled along with a herd of cows and a couple goats on the far side of the clearing. In front of them stood two trolls. The first troll was enormous, and busy hugging a small, traumatized sheep to his chest. The other troll, Roggor, was shaking his head and trying unsuccessfully to pry the sheep out of his larger friend’s arms.

“Why shiny in bushes?” rumbled a voice above Geralt.

Three trolls, Geralt corrected himself, and looked up at the third, who was watching Geralt’s pants with a mixture of confusion and fascination.

Geralt looked down, and sure enough, the gold had caught the light and was twinkling like a damn lighthouse. 

Damn pants. Damn tailor.

He weighed his options, then slowly stepped out of the bushes, making sure to keep his posture and movements non-threatening. The two other trolls stopped their argument and stared at him as he walked forward, the sheep momentarily forgotten.

“I’m not here to harm you,” said Geralt in his best ‘reasoning with trolls’ voice. The last thing he needed was a three on one fight while under-geared. Impossible? No. But the odds weren’t great, either.

There was a thoughtful pause while the trolls considered him.

“Not worried about shiny man hurting _ us_,” said Roggor, speaking even slower than normal, as if worried Geralt was a bit on the slow side. “Man squishy. Us trolls. Trolls not squishy.”

The other two nodded. Geralt frowned. 

“I am a witcher, you know,” he said. It came out more petulant than he’d have liked.

“Don’t look witcher-y,” said Roggor. 

“But-”

“That good. Witchers mean. You shiny. Shiny pretty,” said the third troll.

Geralt felt a headache forming. The trolls thought he was pretty. Allright. Not how he’d envisioned this contract going, but he could work with this.

“I’m here for the sheep--for Fluffy,” he tried instead. “Fluffy’s family is worried. I need to take Fluffy and her friends back home.”

The crying troll immediately perked up, but both Roggor and the third troll looked irritated. “Shiny man no take Fluffy or friends,” said the third troll. “We need eat.”

“No eat Fluffy,” shrieked the crying troll, before dissolving into tears. Roggor gave Geralt a reproachful look before moving to calm the first troll down.

“No need to eat Fluffy,” Geralt said. “Give Fluffy and friends back, and move north into the wilds. Humans with swords will come if you keep taking sheep.”

“Not worried about squishies,” said the third troll, but he looked thoughtfully at his crying friend. “But think moving more easy than eating Fluffy, now.”

“Not just Fluffy,” said Roggor sadly. “Grug name all our sheeps.”

Grug nodded, hiccuping. 

“All?” said the third troll.

“Named all Fluffy,” Grug said defiantly.

The third troll rumbled, exasperated, and Geralt stepped in. “Grug hasn’t named any deer yet, has he? There are lots of deer further north.”

All three seemed to consider that.

“Could move north,” said Grug, hopefully. “Grug promise not name deers.”

“Maybe,” said the third troll, but then his eyes shifted to Geralt in a look that probably passed for cunning on a troll. “But need one thing first.”

“What?” asked Geralt.

The troll grinned.

* * *

Of course this would be the contract where Geralt ran into Lambert. He was on his way back, trying to avoid the main roads and public places, when a familiar voice called out behind him.

“Geralt! Is that--”

Geralt turned around, and Lambert stopped, staring.

A minute passed in silence while Lambert digested what was in front of him. “Well,” he said, when he’d found his voice. “Nilfgaard hasn’t been kind to you, has it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Where are your pants? Is that…” Lambert squinted. “Is that _ silk underwear_?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” snapped Geralt, but Lambert was already doubled over in laughter. 

The silk underwear was, regrettably, as gold as the pants had been. He hadn’t worried too much about them when he’d gotten dressed as he hadn’t planned on parading through the Imperial Capital in them, but the pants had been too shiny for the trolls to pass up. 

The third troll _ had _worn them better than Geralt, though, if he was honest with himself. He hadn’t looked half as proud in those pants as the troll had when it had trundled off into the forest, its behind sparkling with every thundering step. Maybe it was a confidence thing.

At least he’d been able to offload the ruff on them as well, as payment for staying away from human settlements as they moved north. Grug had made it into a makeshift bracelet, the novelty of which had seemed to dull the pain of saying goodbye to Fluffy. 

Unfortunately that left Geralt wearing nothing but his doublet, swords, underwear, and an unpleasant variety of sheep fluids that he was trying not to think too hard about. The livestock had not been cooperative when he’d tried to herd them back to the farm. There had been quite a lot of splatter. 

Lambert stopped laughing, eventually, and said, “Well, if you want to change and join me, I’m on my way to kill some trolls.”

“Already took care of them.”

Lambert looked pissed for about half a second before he realized the logical explanation for why their paths had crossed. “Wait, don’t tell me you’re on your way back from--no.”

“Yeah.”

“Dressed like _ that _?”

Geralt shrugged. “Had pants when I started.”

Lambert was looking at him with something akin to awe. “I don’t think that’s the Papa Vesemir approved way to deal with trolls.”

“Shut up, Lambert.”

“At least tell me you collected a trophy. We can turn it in to my client and--why are you shaking your head?”

There was quite a bit of yelling after that, mostly, “What do you mean they’re still alive!” and, “You gave _ all _the livestock back to your client? Did you think the trolls were only stealing from them? Those animals belonged to over a dozen different farms!” For a minute it looked like Lambert was going to start a fight with him over it, but after a couple swings he announced that grappling with a half-naked, shit-covered Geralt was more trouble than it was worth, so they went to a tavern and got drunk instead.

A couple beers in Geralt was about ready to restart their fight, because it turned out that while Geralt had been sitting on his ass learning to make small talk, Lambert had been going around taking care of all the monster contracts in the area.

“Even the wyvern?” asked Geralt.

“Especially the wyvern,” said Lambert.

Geralt thought mournfully of the all the contracts he’d been carefully collecting from the city message boards and hoarding in his room. All worthless, now.

“What about the rotfiends?” he asked, hopefully, because it wasn’t like he liked tromping around in the sewers, but it beat doing nothing.

“Took care of them yesterday.”

Geralt glared at his empty mug, and ordered another drink. There wasn’t enough work for two witchers this close to the Nilfgaard capital. Civilization had taken care of most of the monsters. Speaking of…

“Why are you here anyway?” asked Geralt.

“Kiera. She’s got…” Lambert waved his hands vaguely, “magic-y business. Sorceress stuff. To figure out with His Imperial Stick-up-his-ass.”

“Emhyr’s not so bad,” said Geralt.

Lambert stared at him incredulously. “‘Not so bad’? He’s invaded and conquered half the world. _ Not so bad _?” Lambert’s volume reached what could best be described as a shriek towards the end of the sentence, and the rest of the tavern patrons scooted away from them, as if Emhyr’s wrath might smite them along with anyone who was standing too close.

“Plays a mean round of Gwent.”

“Which you would know ...how, exactly?”

Because Geralt was already drunk, and sharing seemed like a great idea, the whole story of how he came to be playing cards with Emhyr in the evenings came out. And then of course Lambert demanded a round of Gwent to see if he measured up the Emhyr, and beating Lambert was so depressingly easy that Geralt packed up his deck and left as soon as it was over.

“You’ve ruined me,” he announced sadly as he staggered into Emhyr’s chambers. 

Emhyr looked up from his book, surprised. He was wearing a worn, comfortable looking robe that Geralt hadn’t seen before, and through the fog of alcohol Geralt got the vague sense that Emhyr had been heading to bed. But it wasn’t that late, was it? Geralt squinted at the window, which was blurrier and darker than he’d expected it to be. It might be night. It might pretty late at night.

Emhyr raised and eyebrow at him, and then the second eyebrow joined the first as he took in Geralt’s state. “Geralt, what-”

“I can’t play Gwent against regular people now,” Geralt said, flopping into the armchair beside him. “I was at the tavern-”

“I can tell.”

“-and I beat Lambert at Gwent and it wasn’t even fun. His strategy was like this,” Geralt pinched his fingers close together, “and yours is like this.” He spread his hands as wide as he could, almost smacking Emhyr in the face. “Your game has _ layers _. You have plots on top of plots on top of plots all the way down to this brilliant core, when most people only have a thin crust of plots, tops.”

“Geralt-”

“Is that how you feel all the time?” Geralt asked, horror dawning on him. “Like everyone is boring? Predictable?”

“Well, I didn’t predict you showing up in your underwear, drunk, covered in--I don’t actually know what all you’re covered in.”

“You don’t want to,” said Geralt glumly.

“Geralt.”

“Yes?” He looked up at Emhyr, whose expression seemed caught somewhere between irritation and amusement.

“_Why _ did you show up here in your underwear, drunk, and covered in what looks to be a butcher’s refuse?

Geralt blinked, then yawned. “We play Gwent at night,” he said.

“It’s three in the morning. Geralt, where are your pants?”

“Trolls took ‘em,” he said, and the three in the morning bit made sense, because he was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

“Trolls?”

The embers of the fire were pleasantly warm, and the chair he was sprawled in was perfectly cushy, and Geralt suddenly couldn’t remember why he was trying to keep his eyes open, really, when this was such a nice place to be. The last thing he saw before he fell asleep was Emhyr’s startled face peering over at him. 

And as he drifted off, he couldn’t help feeling a warm spark of satisfaction that Emhyr looked startled, because that meant at least he wasn’t bored anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, you all's comments have been so sweet! They give me life. Thank you!!!

It wasn’t unusual for Geralt to wake up in an unfamiliar place, especially after a night of drinking with Lambert. This was one of the more pleasant mornings, with a soft cushion beneath him and the smell of fruits and cheese emanating from somewhere nearby. 

Geralt inhaled deeply, and added tea and cold meats to the breakfast menu.

A rustling beside him alerted him that he wasn’t alone--again, not unusual for a night after drinking. Opening his eyes and seeing the Emperor of Nilfgaard staring back at him was, however, new.

“Um,” said Geralt.

Emhyr took a sip of tea and continued watching him. 

Geralt sat up in his armchair, and yeah, last night was coming back now. He looked down. The gold underwear glinted merrily back at him. The sheep fluids were still in evidence as well, only over the course of the night he’d managed to rub them into the chair’s fabric. The smell was...strong.

They hadn’t covered this exact scenario in etiquette class, but Geralt was pretty sure every aspect of his situation was an executable offense.

Emhyr didn’t look murderous, though. He looked...thoughtful, and a bit suspicious. Which on Emhyr wasn’t much better, honestly.

“Sorry,” Geralt said. “For the chair. And smell. And everything.”

“I’ll have the chair reupholstered,” said Emhyr, waving his hand dismissively. 

“Great. I’ll, uh, be going, then,” Geralt said, but Emhyr shook his head before he could stand up.

“And what do you imagine the court will say when you leave my room at such an early hour, and in nothing but your underwear?”

Geralt winced.

Emhyr nodded and gestured to the breakfast tray. “You may as well help yourself. I’ve called for the tailor-”

“Please, no.”

“-who will have a respectable outfit for you to exit in.”

Geralt would believe that the tailor had made him a respectable outfit if and when he laid eyes on it. Anything would be better than the stained, golden underpants, though. 

He stood up to head to the breakfast table, and Emhyr, who hadn’t broken eye contact since Geralt had woken up, became suddenly fascinated with scrollwork on the table. 

Emhyr continued to find other things to look at as Geralt helped himself to a plate. It took Geralt a minute to realize Emhyr’s uncharacteristically shifty gaze and his own lack of pants might be related. He wouldn’t have pegged Emhyr as a prude--if anything, Geralt had always figured Emhyr was distant and calculating about everything, including the human body--but there was no denying that he was definitely avoiding looking directly at Geralt.

Back when Geralt was still a witcher-in-training, Vesemir had told him that he didn’t know when to leave well enough alone, and had predicted that it would be the death of him. And maybe Vesemir had been on to something, because when Geralt got back to his chair he couldn’t resist sprawling a bit, thighs spread, one leg kicked out, hips canted forward in a lazy recline--just to see.

A light pink tinged Emhyr’s cheeks.

The blush was quickly followed by a glare, which Geralt fielded with his best innocent face. Judging my Emhyr’s scowl, it wasn’t entirely convincing. 

“I’m not entirely sure what kind of game you think you’re playing,” Emhyr said. “But-”

The tailor’s entrance interrupted Emhyr’s threat, which was a shame, since every moment he spent looking in Geralt’s direction deepened the red on his cheeks. The expression on the tailor’s face when he saw Geralt was almost as entertaining, however.

“Your Highness,” the tailor said after a moment of stunned silence. He dropped into a belated bow. “I, er, didn’t know-”

“I trust you have an outfit ready for Geralt,” said Emhyr. He gave the man a meaningful look. “A suitable outfit.”

“Of course, your Highness. Forgive me, I hadn’t realized he was your-”

“Leave the clothing and return to your duties.”

The tailor tripped over himself in his efforts to simultaneously bow and retreat, which Geralt found satisfying to watch until he realized that the tailor had in fact delivered a neatly folded pile of respectable looking clothing, which there had definitely not been time to make from scratch, which meant-

“Wait, did he have normal clothes already made for me _ this whole time_?”

* * *

Geralt was sure that no one had seen him exiting Emhyr’s chambers. And if they had, he’d left at a fairly respectable hour (he’d had a second helping of breakfast, and then a round of Gwent, and then a third helping) and had been dressed in a real outfit that actual human beings would wear and not just underwear. Despite Emhyr’s reservations, he’d been confident that anyone who’d spied him wouldn’t have any gossip material to give Emhyr grief over. 

So naturally, by noon, the entire palace knew that he was not only sleeping with Emhyr, but that they’d been lovers for decades and had plans to retire together to his vineyard in Toussaint.

Geralt sighed as he passed another group of courtiers that grinned knowingly at him as he approached, then dissolved into a pile of giggling and whispers as soon as he’d passed. It wasn’t that he minded the rumor, per say--he’d had worse said about him than that he’d bagged an emperor--but he was a bit concerned with what Emhyr’s reaction would be. 

He should have been more concerned with what Lambert’s reaction would be.

“I don’t even know how you knew,” Geralt said, when Lambert stopped yelling, “but it’s not true.”

Lambert had already been several beers south of sober by the time Geralt arrived at the tavern that evening, and in a foul mood to boot. So all in all, fairly standard Lambert behavior, to the point where Geralt hadn’t noticed anything was wrong until Lambert had turned around and yelled, “You’re fucking Emhyr?”

The rest of the tavern hadn’t reacted, which either meant that Lambert had been yelling about it before Geralt showed up, or everyone had already known. Neither option was great.

Lambert snorted. “Kiera heard it from one of the other sorceresses, who heard it from her serving girl, who heard it from one of the kitchen staff, who overheard it from a delivery boy,” he said. “And do you know what’s worse?”

“Worse? Lambert, if the gossip is this widespread, I’m going to have to have a conversation about this with Ciri. It doesn’t get worse than this.” 

“What’s worse,” said Lambert, ignoring him, “is that Kiera went to tell Yen the juicy new rumor-”

“Yen is in here?”

“-but it turns out Yen had already heard all about it! Kiera was heartbroken--she’d been really looking forward to seeing Yen’s face when she found out. She’s convinced that I already knew, since we’re such good friends,” he paused to shoot Geralt a disappointed look, “and so now she’s mad at me for spoiling her chance to pull one over on Yen. I just don’t get it, Geralt. Why didn’t you tell me? You blather on about how fantastic he is at cards, but not a peep about this? Unless the card thing was a metaphor...”

“Yen is here?”

“Geralt, keep up, we’ve already covered that.”

“And she knows about me and Emhyr? Not,” he emphasized, jabbing his finger at Lambert, “that there’s anything to know. It’s just a stupid rumor. But now she thinks…”

“That the White Flame is dancing in your burroughs, now? Yeah.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “You weren’t still trying to make it work with her, were you?”

“Well, not after this, no,” said Geralt, though if he was honest with himself, he and Yen had been over for a while. Their last attempt at a relationship had been more aggravating than passionate, and even Yen had seemed relieved when circumstances had forced them in different directions. That didn’t stop him from glaring at Lambert.

“Hey, I said she already knew about it before Kiera told her,” said Lambert. “If you didn’t want her to find out, then maybe you shouldn’t have been flaunting your little fling with Emhyr.”

“Flaunting? I wasn’t flaunting my fling with Emhyr, I was…” Too late, Geralt realized that his voice had risen. The tavern was distinctly quieter than normal, and as he glanced around there was a flurry of heads turning as people pretended not to have been listening in. He continued in a whisper, “I wasn’t flaunting anything, and there was no fling.”

“So you didn’t head back to Emhyr’s private quarters last night?”

“Well-”

“And then didn’t leave until morning?”

“It was a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding that ended with you sneaking out of his rooms scandalously late in the morning, in a fresh change of clothing?”

Geralt snarled and grabbed Lambert’s beer.

“Hey!”

“The entire capital thinks I’m fucking Emhyr,” Geralt said. “You’re buying.”

* * *

A couple hours and a couple rounds later, Lambert said, thoughtfully, “It’s the danger, isn’t it?”

“Hmm?”

“I thought you had a magic thing. You know, Yen, Triss, Kiera--yeah, don’t think I hadn’t heard about that. But it isn’t the magic, is it? It’s the danger, or the power, or the challenge of it all, whatever. It gets you off.”

“Shut up, Lambert,” said Geralt tiredly, but he couldn’t deny that he had a bit of a pattern going.

“You never did do things by halves,” said Lambert. “Good for you, then, I guess.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows.

“I mean, if danger is what does it for you, you must be having a pretty good time, right? Can’t get much more dangerous than the Emperor of fucking Nilfgaard.”

No, he really couldn’t. Geralt thought again of what Emhyr’s reaction to all this would be, and cringed. “Might be in a bit over my head on this one,” he admitted reluctantly.

“_A bit _ over your head? Geralt, you’re in so deep it would make drowners nervous. This either ends with Nilfgaard in flames and your head on a pike, or with you and Emhyr living happily ever after in that vineyard of yours--no stops in between.”

Emhyr might not have romantic intentions for their relationship, but Lambert’s words still rang true. “Wanna bet which one?”

“My money is on the happy ending,” said Lambert.

“Really?”

“Yeah. With those long odds, I’d be rich if it actually happened.”

* * *

The next day at lessons, Ciri didn’t give any indication that she’d heard the court gossip, which was equal parts a relief and a concern. A relief that he didn’t have to talk about it with her, and a concern that Lambert, of all people, was more in tune with court events than the Empress in waiting. 

Madam Margriet, however, _ had _heard the gossip. Her tone was noticeably cooler when he showed up for his elocution lessons, and when she sat down, she did so on the other end of the couch.

“I had hoped we were close enough friends to talk candidly,” she said, pouting, after a couple minutes of Geralt reciting his vowels into chilly silence. “You could have told me about yourself and His Highness. I would have kept your secret. Though I do have to confess some...personal disappointment. I had hoped you were enjoying my charms as well as my tutelage.”

Geralt shrugged. Margriet considered him for a moment through narrowed eyes.

“If you feel obligated to him because of your daughter-”

“What? No, I don’t,” said Geralt. 

“Enunciate those t’s.”

“I don’t feel obligated to him,” said Geralt again, spitting his syllables. “It’s not like that. The rumors blew things out of proportion.”

“Then you didn’t spend the night in his chambers?”

“Well…”

Margriet nodded, brightening. “Ah. I see. So it was just a dalliance.”

“Oh, for--it wasn’t a dalliance!”

“Something more serious, then?” She sighed. “I do hope you don’t get your heart broken, Geralt. Romance is less straightforward here than it is up north. His Highness may be acting for reasons other than love, and assuming that you already know that court romance is, by its nature, fleeting. A pleasant way to pass the time at its best, a play for political power at its worst.”

She delivered this news with such a pitying gaze that Geralt found himself at a loss for words, struggling to understand this view of the world in which he, Geralt the witcher, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, was a sweet innocent whose naivete was being taken advantage of.

“You think Emhyr,” said Geralt, slowly, “is seducing me for...political gain? He’s the Emperor of half the world. Maybe two-thirds. What could he possibly gain by getting me?”

“Princess Cirilla, of course,” said Margriet. “Everyone knows she’s got one foot out the door, ready to run off into the wilds and live free with you every time a meeting runs five minutes over schedule. If His Highness wants to keep his heir, he’s got to keep you.” Margriet scooted closer and patted his knee consolingly. “And when he’s gone--and with a position as dangerous as his, that could be any day--Cirilla will need someone close to her to support her and keep her in line.”

Geralt frowned at her. “I thought you said you were one of Ciri’s supporters.”

“Oh, I am! I’m sure she’s going to be an incredible ruler one day. But she’s still so young. You can understand why having her parental figure here would be important.”

It occurred to Geralt then that while the court may know about Ciri, they didn’t _ know _her. Maybe they heard that she was the Lady of Time and Space, and tittered at quaint northern titles. Or that she’d saved the world, and nodded while thinking it a typical embellishment of a more ordinary accomplishment. They’d never seen her take on the Wild Hunt with only her sword and her magic. They still thought she was barely more than a child.

The first person to try and take advantage of that youth was in for an unpleasant surprise. 

Geralt looked at Margriet’s sweetly sympathetic face and grimaced. It was likely that her explanation for Emhyr’s supposed seduction was based on her own motivations. If Margriet viewed Ciri as young and naive, then her own support of Ciri, combined with her flirtations with Geralt, spoke to a grab for power.

Emhyr’s urgency surrounding Ciri’s lessons was making more and more sense. If Ciri’s only supporters were people hoping to control her, she wouldn’t survive as Empress. Or if she did, it would be as a powerless figurehead. She needed to impress the court with her competence, and she needed to do it fast.

Margriet, apparently interpreting his disgusted face as being directed towards Emhyr instead of herself, clasped his hands in her own. “Oh, you poor dear. Don’t let it get you down. I’m sure His Highness isn’t just sleeping with you to control Cirilla. I have it on good authority that there’s genuine attraction there as well.”

“Oh?”

“He’s been caught admiring your, ah, assets, once or twice in public.” She gave him an encouraging wink. “I say relax and enjoy it. While it lasts, anyway.”

* * *

His accent was, according to Margriet, as good as it was going to get with the time they had--not good enough to pass for a native, but generic enough that someone could confuse him for being a noble from one of the more respectable vassal states. With only a week left until the ball (and, Geralt suspected, since seducing him was no longer on the table) Margriet called off further lessons as a waste of time, though she was insisting he go to the races with her as a ‘trial run’, for whatever good that would do. 

Geralt had been to plenty of horse races, though usually as a participant. He wondered if showing up on Roach would be a faux paux or not.

He would also be getting a brand new set of clothes for the races, though why he needed more, he couldn’t guess. The tailor’s recent outfits had fit and weren’t humiliating, which was really all he could ever want from court clothes, plus they were all so similar--black, well fitted, and with modest gold accents-- that Geralt was pretty certain no one would be able to tell if he was wearing a new one or not.

“I thought the new outfits were fine,” said Geralt, not for the first time, as the tailor bustled around his quarters. He’d shown up with a small mob of assistants in tow, carrying substantially more fabric samples than last time.

“Fine? For the Princess’ barbarian foster dad, yes. For his Highness’ fling-”

“Hey!”

“-yes, they are fine. But for the savior of my beloved’s family?” The tailor puffed his chest out, looking at Geralt with distinctly watery eyes. “For him, these rags will not do!”

“Oh. Right. The sheep.”

Lambert had bitched about the sheep quite a bit. As Emhyr’s supposed lover, Geralt’s act of giving all the livestock to the tailor’s fiancee had been more official than intended. The other farms hadn’t even attempted to sort out which cow or goat was whose, since taking from the herd would have been equivalent to stealing from the Emperor or some nonsense. Lambert’s client had been pissed. 

“Yes, the sheep. And the goats, and cows.” The tailor’s eyes misted up further. “My beloved’s family told me what you did for them, and in my name, no less! They were so impressed with your work--and with my having sent you--that they’ve moved the wedding up.”

“Congrats.”

“When the sheep first started disappearing they were facing destitution. They would have had to move in with me once I married their daughter. But now you’ve made them rich!”

And kept the tailor from having to live with his in-laws. 

“I’m glad,” said Geralt. “But I really was happy with the clothes you’d given me.”

“My heart couldn’t bear the shame. Consider it a thank you gift from a soon to be happily married man.”

* * *

Emhyr didn’t seem surprised that the rumor had spread so far. He was annoyingly blasé about it, if anything.

“I thought you’d be upset,” said Geralt. “If dancing with that one poor girl is going to be enough to humiliate her, then surely this rumor is bad for you.”

Emhyr shrugged. “Most will assume it's a political play of some sort. And an Emperor is allowed some eccentricities. My great grandfather once took a goat as his official consort. I will survive one witcher.”

“Not sure if I’ve ever been compared to a goat quite like that before, but alright.”

“To most Nilfgaardian nobles, unfortunately, a Nordling isn’t much better.”

“And the rumor doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it?”

“Well, I’m a witcher. And a guy.”

“Nilfgaardians aren’t as prudish about that sort of thing as northerners,” said Emhyr. “And people this far south aren’t accustomed to witchers--you’re more a fairy tale from the north than a legitimate threat to be feared. You’re unlikely to have any significant effect on my reputation.”

“I’m not talking about your reputation--I’m talking about you being bothered. Personally.”

Emhyr blinked at him. “Why would it bother me personally?”

Well, if Emhyr couldn’t think of reasons, Geralt wasn’t going to suggest any. They spent the rest of the time in an easy silence, drinking wine and playing Gwent. It was a pleasant evening, and a much needed respite after the craziness of the past days.

Until--

“Where are you going?”

Geralt paused, halfway to the door. “To bed?”

Emhyr shook his head. “I won’t have the next rumor be that I’m an incompetent lover. You’ll stay here, at least for another couple hours.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to sleep with me.”

“Oh.” Geralt hadn’t actually been worried about that, though now that Emhyr mentioned it, it was surprisingly hard to get out of his head.

“There’s a couch in the study that will be fine,” said Emhyr.

* * *

The couch was not fine.

It was made by the same sadist who’d made the study’s chairs. Geralt had slept on actual rocks that were more comfortable. About an hour in, Geralt moved to the floor, which was an improvement but still a far cry from the feather mattress he’d gotten used to over the past few weeks.

It didn’t help that he was pretty sure Emhyr was doing this just to fuck with him. Geralt had thought that an Emperor would have more avenues for entertainment than tormenting his guests, but what did he know? Nothing, apparently, since here he was, camped on the floor, while Emhyr was snug in his royal bed probably having a laugh at Geralt’s expense.

As soon as the requisite number of hours had passed he made his escape, though his irritable expression probably did more damage to Emhyr’s reputation than leaving a few hours earlier would have.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated the chapter count to eight chapters! It's all written now--just finishing up editing, and trying to find time to do some more drawings :P

The race tracks were surprisingly enjoyable--mostly, Geralt suspected, because he decided to sneak Roach in, and then loitered around the starting area until someone took pity on him and entered him in a race.

Even the stormy look on Margriet’s face when he showed up to their meeting 30 minutes late, sweating, and with the first place trophy clasped under his arm wasn't enough to ruin his fun.

“I truly am sorry,” she said coolly, in a tone that said she was anything but. “I was under the impression that you only had difficulty with your accent, not with the Nilfgaardian language itself. When I invited you to the races, I was not inviting you to actually race.”

Geralt shrugged. “There were nobles racing, too. Figured it was posh enough to be okay.”

In fact, he felt pretty confident it had been his noble-esq clothes that had gotten him his last minute slot. He certainly hadn’t been the only fancily dressed person hanging around, though he wasn’t looking as sharp as he had been half an hour ago.

He frowned down at his new outfit, which actually had been pretty alright--soft black pants and a doublet that he didn’t hate, both fitted to him so closely that they might as well have been a second skin, and all of it interwoven with a shifting golden pattern that broadened and swirled into a tasteful filigree border along his neck and at the hems. For all he’d snorted at the tailor’s insistence on getting just the right shade of gold for the thread, he’d caught a glimpse of his reflection and the damned stuff really did bring out his eyes. There were even opalescent gemstones studded throughout the pattern, which should have been tacky but somehow looked regal, and Geralt was trying very hard not to think of how much it all cost.

It was as nice an outfit as he’d ever laid eyes on, leagues ahead of the standard outfits Emhyr had originally had the tailor make for him--maybe even equal to the kind of stuff Emhyr himself wore. And it was comfortable to boot. Okay, the tight pants were taking a bit of getting used too, but overall he felt almost dashing. 

At least, he had, right up until he’d worn it all through a surprisingly challenging race--if he and Roach hadn’t spent the past decade working together they’d have lost, and it had been close as it was--and gotten everything covered in dust and sweat. He brushed at the mess, but his hand was as dusty as his outfit, and he didn’t accomplish much more than smearing it around. 

“‘Posh enough to be okay’ is not showing up late and...” Margriet’s voice trailed off as her eyes followed the motions of his hand, and she took in his new outfit for the first time. Her expression tightened.

“I probably should have changed before I raced,” Geralt admitted.

“Into another outfit like that one?” Margriet asked. “And just how many outfits of that quality has Emhyr gifted you? And when?”

She looked nervous, which Geralt thought was a bit odd--if the tailor was going to murder someone for this, it would be Geralt. And then he’d probably devise some horrible outfit for Geralt to be buried in.

“Er-”

Geralt was saved from having to answer when a handful of nobles showed up and swarmed them both, greeting Margriet as old friends, and Geralt was suddenly having to draw on all his etiquette lessons as introductions were flying and hands were being shaken and cheeks were being kissed. 

He understood now what Margriet had meant about a trial run. These nobles clearly had no idea who Geralt was, and while his eyes and white hair were drawing their eyes, they were treating him like one of their own. He looked at Margriet, and although her mouth was still pinched and unhappy, she met his eyes and her challenge was clear: see how long he could keep them fooled.

Geralt wasn’t completely new to covert roles. Every now and then he’d pretended to be a guard or a thug, usually a heavily hooded one since his whole face screamed witcher to anyone from the north. Once he’d even pretended to be a teacher while trying to fulfill a contract at a school (though that hadn’t been his most successful disguise--in hindsight he should have removed his swords first). But none of those experiences had prepared him for this. The entire group was watching him closely, curiously, as Geralt grimly plowed his way through the formal introductions as best he could.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, and to have watched you race. Margriet, you didn’t tell us that your new friend was such a skilled horseman,” said one of Margriet’s friends, a weasley looking man named Evert. His eyes lingered on Geralt’s clothes in a look that was half seduction, half frank appraisal of their value. 

“Yes, well, he’s just full of surprises, isn’t he?” said Margriet.

“And you aren’t? We’re hardly gone for a season, and we return to find you parading around with this new, intriguing gentleman on your arm. It’s so rare to find someone with a taste for the finer things in life,” again, eyes raked over his clothes, “who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.”

“There were plenty of nobles in the race with me,” Geralt pointed out.

“But none of your pedigree, I’m sure,” said Evert.

“Well, that’s probably true.”

“Those were all small fish. Merchants and second sons,” said a young woman by the name of Anje, who had the kind of ruthless, calculating eyes that Geralt was more accustomed to seeing on hardened mercenaries. She put her hand on his arm in a friendly way, but Geralt didn’t miss the way she was watching both his face and Margriet’s as she did so.

Margriet smiled warmly, and Anje seemed to take that as a go ahead to scooch closer. 

Starting to feel like the lone witcher in a den of drowners, Geralt did his best to politely disentangle himself from Anje’s hands, only to find that Evert had used his distraction to slip in close.

“Has anyone ever told you how exotic your eyes are?” said Evert, throwing a more-than-friendly arm over Geralt’s shoulders. 

“Honestly? No.”

“Are they an enchantment? I simply must have some for my own,” said Anje.

“Well, I know of one way to get them, but it involves multiple excruciating days of being strapped down to a table and having monster venom pumped into your blood,” said Geralt.

There was a moment of silence as everyone digested that.

“And a sense of humor, too,” said Anje, laughing weakly and patting his arm.

“The procedure would probably kill you, though. You’re too old.”

Well, that did the trick of getting her to let go of him. The group stared at him for a moment before Margriet cleared her throat and switched the topic to court gossip that’d happened while her friends had been gone. 

Geralt found himself pulled along as the group migrated closer to the track to better watch the next round of the races. There were less rich people in this one, and Geralt got the impression that most of the ‘merchants and second sons’ had run with him in the first race in order to join the hobnobbing that was happening in the stands. Just like he had. It made him feel vaguely ill to realize he’d been aristocratic on instinct, but at the same time, it meant he probably hadn’t screwed up and done something embarrassing that was going to cause trouble for Ciri. 

Speaking of…

“Geralt!”

Geralt turned to see Ciri hurrying towards him, Morvran trailing behind her. She was dressed in a flowing velvet gown that outshone anything the group of nobles around him was wearing, though the way she had it hiked up for speed and was stomping towards him in her fighting boots ruined the effect a bit.

Her expression slipped from excited to unsettled as she took in the group he was standing with. Evert and Anje--who had reattached herself to his arm during the race, albeit with a strained smile this time--got particularly intense glares until they released him.

The group around him dropped into bows, which she returned with a nod curt enough to border on insulting before pulling Geralt into a hug.

“You seem to be fitting in nicely,” she said. She sounded disapproving, which really wasn’t fair because Geralt had been working his ass off to do just that, and all for her benefit. “Want to introduce me to your new...friends?”

The smile she gave Anje and Evert was deadly.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered to her as Margriet made another round of introductions for Ciri. 

“What’s wrong?” Ciri hissed back. “What’s wrong with you? What are you doing?”

“Trying out all the skills that I’ve been practicing. You know, at those lessons? That you were at? Wasn’t this the whole point?”

“If you think using your new social skills to sleep around was the point, then we were attending very different lessons,” she snapped. “You have to know this will get back to Emhyr. Even if you weren't flaunting it in public, he’s got spies everywhere. You can’t possibly think you’d get away with cheating on him, and frankly, I’m disappointed you’d even try.”

“Cheating on-” Geralt stopped. “Wait, what?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, I saw how cozy you were with those two.”

“You think I’m cheating on Emhyr?”

“You’re with the Emperor?” Evert squeaked, backing away from Geralt so fast that he tripped. He landed on his butt, regained his footing, and continued retreating, all without taking his eyes off Geralt. He looked at the fancy clothes again, but this time his face crumpled horror. “He’s the one that gave you those clothes, didn’t he? Shit, those are an expensive gift. Really expensive. Shit.”

“For the last time, dammit, I’m not having an affair with Emhyr,” said Geralt, throwing his hands up.

“No,” said Anje, quietly. Her face was pale, and her hands were clenched into fists at her side. “You’re right. You don’t give someone you’re casually sleeping with a gift like that. Is he officially courting you, or are you already his consort?”

Evert made a noise that might have been a scream, then turned and fled into the crowd.

Geralt had spent the past few days trying very hard not to imagine how the conversation with Ciri about him and Emhyr would go, but the little he had pictured, he hadn’t pictured quite like this. 

“Okay, I think this is getting a little out of hand,” he said. “Me and Emhyr aren’t-”

“I know you’re upset that I didn’t invite you to my winter ball, but this is too much, Margriet!” Anje said. Her face was twisted with rage and fear as she turned on her friend. “I could be executed for this!”

“Woah, no one’s going to be executed,” said Geralt. “This is all a misunderstanding. I’m not-”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Margriet cooly. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t have time. You’d draped yourself over him before I had the chance.”

“You invited me here to get revenge on your friend?” Geralt said, staring at Margriet. “Is this normal court life? No wonder Emhyr thinks I have ulterior motives. I’ve met vampires less blood thirsty than you all.”

“Oh, he’s suspicious of you, is he? Is there trouble in paradise already?” Margriet asked. 

Geralt was saved from having to answer when Ciri grabbed his arm and dragged him away. She was silent as she pulled him out of the stands, past the group of senators that she’d clearly been here socializing with--and so much for not embarrassing Ciri, as it was pretty obvious that he’d ruined what was a fairly important looking meeting--and stuffed him into a carriage.

“But Roach-”

“Will be taken care of,” she said, crowding into the coach behind him. Morvran followed, looking anywhere but at Geralt.

“I’m really not Emhyr’s lover,” Geralt said again, as the coach took off.

Ciri snorted. “Sure. You just spend hours alone with him every night, talking and playing card games.”

“Yes!”

“And drinking wine, and having dinner together, and only leaving for your own quarters in the wee hours of the morning, if you return to your quarters at all.”

“Well, okay, I know it looks bad-”

“No, Geralt, it doesn’t look bad. That’s why I’m upset!” Ciri reached over and punched him lightly in the chest. “It looked good--great, even! You actually seemed happy, and he did, too. Did you know he actually smiled a bit when I brought you up in conversation the other day? He smiled, Geralt, and his face didn’t crack or anything.”

They rode in silence for a bit.

“When you didn’t say anything the day after the rumors started, I thought you hadn’t heard,” said Geralt. “But that wasn’t it, was it? You didn’t react because you already thought me and Emhyr were together.”

“I’d suspected since the first night we all had dinner together,” Ciri admitted. “You two were sitting so close to each other-”

“That’s just the way the furniture was arranged!”

“-faces flushed-”

“We’d had some wine.”

“-looking happy-”

“Is that so suggestive? He’s a fun person to spend time with.”

“Is he? Because I’ve heard a lot of words used to describe my father, but never ‘fun’.” She glared at him. “If you want to keep having ‘fun’ with him, then you need to let him know about what happened at the race track immediately. He’s going to hear about it sooner or later anyways--better sooner, from you, with an apology, than from some noble who’ll use it to try and break his heart.”

“Also, he may actually execute those two,” put in Morvran. “So if it was all in innocence, you’ll want to mention that.”

Geralt sighed. “I’ll make sure to bring it up. But Ciri, I’m telling the truth. I’m not in a relationship with Emhyr.”

“Maybe you don’t see it that way. Maybe for you it was just a fun romp, but for him? From what I’ve heard at court, Emhyr hasn’t taken a lover since my mom. He doesn’t let people close, not casually, not like that. But he let you close.” She leaned back in her seat, and turned to look out the window. She looked defeated--no, worse, she looked disappointed. In him. “I don’t know my father very well, yet. He’s done harsh things in the past, and it might turn out that he’s a cruel man. But I didn’t think you were.”

* * *

“Heads up: I’m cheating on you.”

Emhyr glanced up at him, blinked at Geralt’s new outfit, then returned to his work.

This early in the day Emhyr was still in his official office, though the chamberlain had ushered Geralt inside without the usual wait, much to the disgruntlement of the crowd of nobles waiting in the antechamber for their turn at an audience. There weren’t any chairs here for visitors--probably to encourage brevity--so Geralt propped his hip up on Emhyr’s desk as he waited for Emhyr to finish whatever he was writing. 

“I’d heard,” Emhyr said. He didn’t look even a little bit heartbroken, despite Ciri’s dire warnings, though he did shoot an irritated look at where dust from Geralt’s pants was getting onto his parchment.

He also gave Geralt a once over, which would have been flattering if Emhyr hadn’t seemed more interested in frowning suspiciously at the gems and embroidery of the outfit than he had in checking out Geralt.

“Really? Because I just got back from the racetracks a couple minutes ago.” He hadn’t even had time to change or clean up--thus the dusty pants--as Ciri had insisted he go straight to apologize to Emhyr. Attempts to explain that no, _ really _, he didn’t have anything to apologize for had only made her angrier and more insistent.

“News at court travels fast. Especially when it’s being carried by mages.”

“You have mage spies following me around?”

“They were following Cirilla. Though since you’ve decided to start making scenes in public spaces, I expect I’ll have to employ one to follow you, too,” said Emhyr. He glared at Geralt. “Do you realize how expensive they are?”

“It’s not my fault!”

“You could have been more discreet.”

“There was nothing to be discreet about! I wasn’t actually-” Geralt stopped, and rubbed his hand over his face. “Listen, just don’t have those two idiots beheaded, okay?”

“Your concern is touching, but unnecessary. Standing suggestively close to the Imperial Consort isn’t grounds for execution.”

“Good. Wait-”

“At most they’ll be lightly tortured.”

“Emhyr!”

Emhyr sighed. “Fine. They won’t be tortured. But if I don’t take any actions, it will make me look weak. I suppose I could settle for temporary exile--self-imposed will be fine. If they keep out of the Capital for the next year or so, I will accept that as recompense, so long as it’s accompanied by a demonstration of devotion to me on your part.”

“Emhyr.”

“Sharing my chambers would work. I’ll have the chamberlain move your things into my suite.”

“_Emhyr _. Since when am I the Imperial Consort?”

But Emhyr was already ringing the bell on his desk, ushering in his next audience. The nobleman who the chamberlain escorted in stopped short when he saw Geralt sitting on Emhyr’s desk.

“Er, if I’m interrupting something,” he said, his eyes bugging out a bit, but Emhyr said, “Geralt was just leaving,” with a parting pat to Geralt’s thigh, and Geralt found himself being politely but firmly guided out of the room by Mererid.

Geralt was no stranger to seductive touches. Over the years his partners had ranged from prostitutes to sorceresses to an actual literal succubus, and he considered himself fairly well versed in sex. A touch on his thigh was so tame as to practically be platonic. It shouldn’t have registered as erotic, and it definitely shouldn’t have gotten him hot and bothered.

And yet…

When they were out of the antechamber he tried to discreetly rearrange himself. Mererid’s face soured a bit more.

When Mererid caught him looking, however, he made an effort to smooth out his frown, and even went so far as to wish Geralt a good afternoon, which was by far the most ominous thing that had happened to Geralt today. If Mererid was trying to be respectful towards him, then shit really was serious.

* * *

Emhyr’s servants wasted no time in moving his stuff. He hadn't been back in his room five minutes before a whole team showed up, clearly expecting to find more stuff than a small pile of traveling bags and a single drawer of clothes. There weren’t even enough bags for every person, and after a brief, quiet squabble over who would carry what, two servants ended up splitting the load of his saddlebags between them.

The only thing left in the room was the hanger of hideous clown clothes that he’d started off his time here with, and even those had been bundled up for transport before Geralt said, “Do you really want _ those _in Emhyr’s chambers?” and the servant had paled and dropped them like they were plagued.

That’s how Ciri found him: sitting in an empty room, staring at a pile of garish clothes on the floor, and trying to figure out what was happening with his life.

“Oh, Geralt,” she said, and hugged him.

He hugged her back tightly.

“I guess this is goodbye, then?” She pulled back, and it would have been impossible at this close range not to notice that her eyes were a bit more moist than normal. “Maybe in the summer I can take a tour up to some of the more northern regions, and you can visit me there,” she said. 

“What? Oh. He didn’t kick me out.”

“Then what-”

“I’m moving in with him.”

It took a few minutes for the squealing, and then the laughing (“You had me scared, there!” she said, punching him in the shoulder) to die down enough for him to get a word in edgewise, and by that point she looked so damned happy that Geralt couldn’t bring himself to say anything to ruin it. 

Emhyr, on the other hand, he had plenty to say to.

“Ciri’s very happy for us,” Geralt said accusingly as he entered Emhyr’s, no, _ their, _quarters.

“I’m aware. She came by earlier threatening grave harm to me if anything should happen to your heart.” Emhyr closed the book he’d been reading with a sigh. “A threat punishable by disinheritance and execution, but I think I’ll let it pass this time.”

“Why you didn’t correct her?”

Emhyr looked at him questioningly.

“Why didn’t you tell her we weren’t in a relationship?”

“Why didn’t you?” Emhyr asked, and his eyes had taken on the sharp look that they did when he’d just laid down a particularly interesting card in Gwent and was waiting to see how Geralt would respond.

“I did! She doesn’t believe me!”

“Hmm. I wonder why.”

“Well, it didn’t help my case that apparently I’m the Imperial Consort now. Have you lost your mind? Why would you do that?”

“You appeared in public, wearing clothes to rival my own, knowing everyone would assume they were a gift from me. Was being officially recognized as my lover not what you had in mind?” And dammit, Emhyr asked the question so politely, so frankly, like he was asking Geralt if he’d had an enjoyable day instead of if he wanted to be Emhyr’s lover, that Geralt was having trouble responding.

He opened and shut his mouth a few times before settling on, “That’s not the point! Listen, I don’t care what the rest of the court thinks, but Ciri...”

If they had been playing Gwent, the expression on Emhyr’s face would have told Geralt that he’d made the wrong move. Not necessarily a bad move, but one that was expected. Boring. Disappointing.

“If your problem is with Ciri, then I suggest you have this discussion with her,” he said, turning back to his book. "I’m afraid I’m not up for Gwent tonight. Our bedchamber is through the furthest door on your left if you wish to retire early.”

_ Our _bedchamber. Geralt stared at the door for a moment, comprehension growing slowly along with the realization that he’d spent so much time worrying about Ciri’s beliefs and expectations that he hadn’t thought to consider if Emhyr had any expectations. Geralt was the consort now after all, and if they were sharing a bed…

“I’ve got, you know-” he said, and backed out of the suite. He’d like to imagine that he didn’t quite turn tail and run, but he did manage to make it all the way down the hallway and halfway down the next before the door had finished swinging shut behind him.

* * *

Lambert was as sympathetic as ever.

“So you’re scared to fuck him now that’s it’s official?” he said. “Or what? I don’t understand the problem.”

Geralt groaned and buried his head in his arms. “We’re not in a relationship, Lambert.”

“See, that’s even less believable now that you’re the official consort living in his bedchambers. Seriously, though, what are you upset about? Not in the mood tonight or something?”

He couldn’t honestly say he wasn’t in the mood, and that was half the problem. He could vividly remember how skillful those strong, elegant fingers had been when shuffling a deck of cards, or maneuvering a pen across parchment. It didn’t take much imagination to envision what they’d be like on his own body.

If he let himself think about it, he could still feel the spot on his thigh where Emhyr had touched him. If that hand had stayed a little longer, moved a little higher…

Lambert wrinkled his nose. “I can smell you getting excited over there. Stop it. Better yet, leave. Go back to your fancy Imperial suite and silk sheets and powerful lover and get off there.”

“I’d rather not walk anywhere for a few minutes, actually.”

That earned him a kick.

“Ow!”

“I’m leaving,” Lambert said. “Stay here and mope for no good reason if it floats your boat, but count me out. I’m going to spend the night with Kiera.”

The thing was, the bar wasn’t all that entertaining without Lambert bitching at him. Everyone else was avoiding him like the plague, and the beer here wasn’t actually good, not when he knew he could be having the finest the Imperial cellars had to offer if he went back. That didn’t stop him from drinking a couple more pints, of course, but he didn’t _ enjoy _it.

“You ruined everything,” Geralt told Emhyr, later that night, after he’d finally given up and pretending he was having fun and had gone back in defeat. Sure, he could have stayed overnight at the tavern, but even if the idea didn’t feel childish and like a simple delaying of the inevitable, he didn’t love the thought of staying on some thin, bug infested, straw stuffed rag when he could have down feathers.

“You even ruined normal mattresses. _ Mattresses _. Used to think those sad sacks of hay were a luxury. Now they’re too pokey.”

Emhyr blinked up at him from the bed. Even in sleep his eyes were sharp, if a bit bleary.

“Mattresses?” he said, apparently having woken up halfway through Geralt’s rant and missed some context. 

“Ruined cheap beer, too, and Gwent with regular people. Or maybe it’s just me you’ve ruined.” Geralt flopped onto the bed next to him, though ‘next to’ was relative--Geralt had been in rooms smaller this bed, and being on the other side of it wasn’t all that intimate. And dammit, it was just as comfortable as he’d imagined an emperor's mattress would be. “How am I ever going to go back on the path after this?”

Emhyr was watching him carefully. “Are you planning on staying in the Imperial Capital, then?”

“Oh, shut up,” said Geralt. He rolled to face the other way, punching his pillow a bit before he settled down, more out of anger than out of a need to fluff it since even the pillows were prefect. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“And if I did? What would you do, then?”

Geralt didn’t have an answer to that. 

He pretended to be asleep until he heard Emhyr snort--evidently not buying the act--and settle back down under the covers. Before long Emhyr’s breathing had slowed and steadied, but as comfortable as the bed was, Geralt was having trouble falling asleep himself. 

Emhyr’s last question kept replaying in his mind: what would he do? If this whole bizarre situation was real, and not some complicated power play on Emhyr’s part--if Emhyr really, actually, wanted him--what would he do?

It wasn’t a matter of choosing court life over the witcher’s path. Geralt knew perfectly well that he could make his home base here and travel out for contracts when he got restless. And wasn’t that a tempting thought--taking week trips to slay monsters, then returning to spend time hanging out with Ciri and playing cards with Emhyr. Being here to watch Ciri grow into her role as Empress. Being here to watch her future children grow. 

It occurred to him that if he wanted to, he could probably have that life, even without a relationship with Emhyr. Ciri certainly wanted him to stay, and while she didn’t have much political power yet, she had enough sway to get him a room somewhere in the palace that he could call home base. If nothing else, Emhyr would probably provide one for the same reason he had originally--to make Ciri happy.

So the issue wasn’t with his lifestyle, and it wasn’t about being close to Ciri. It was simple: did he want Emhyr? Not just as a friend, and not just as a quick tumble, because Geralt didn’t need Ciri’s warning to know better than to try that, but as a serious, long-term lover.

It was a long time before he fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaand I have the flu. And an eye infection. And I edited and drew the pictures while dealing with both, so...there may be more errors than normal because half of everything is blurry and my world is on fire. Sorry!

His mind might have been torn, but his body wasn’t.

The bed was large, but it was thoroughly inundated with Emhyr’s scent--a subtle, slightly musky blend of ink and sandalwood. Geralt reached out for him, hips grinding against the mattress, before he’d fully woken up.

His hand met empty, cold sheets. He blinked, registering his own disappointment at the same time as he realized what he’d been doing. 

Dammit. He wasn’t trained for this court romance nonsense. He liked Emhyr--liked the way he’d smile without actually moving his mouth, liked his intricate and brilliant plotting, liked the way he actually gave a shit about Ciri and was making the world a slightly better place for her--and if Emhyr liked him back and wasn’t just using him to keep Ciri around, then things should have been straightforward.

He cursed Nilfgaardian politics, cursed Emhyr’s job (how much easier would this have been if he’d been another powerful magician or succubus--you know, something uncomplicated), and cursed the tailor, too, for good measure.

Geralt got out of bed and stripped off his clothes before realizing that he didn’t have the first clue where his new clothes had been stored. After a brief search of the room Geralt concluded that Emhyr didn’t so much have a wardrobe as he did an extensive maze of closets. There was no way Geralt was going to find what he was looking for without spending the better part of the day spelunking through racks of coats and shelves of shoes. 

There was nothing for it. Geralt headed out into the main room to ask Emhyr for help, only realizing about about ten seconds too late that Emhyr wasn’t alone.

“Er,” Geralt said.

“Hello, Geralt,” said Yen. 

Emhyr gave him a nod.

Yen and Emhyr were sitting at a side table, a tea set and a pile of books between them. Yen looked as impeccable as ever. Her smile was haughty--nothing new there--though was a hint of sadness about it, if Geralt wasn’t imagining it. 

This was the first time they’d talked since they’d parted ways. Geralt had known they’d cross paths again, and he’d known it would be awkward--though he hadn’t imagined it would be ‘in his underpants in front of the Emperor of Nilfgaard’ awkward.

“I’ll just,” said Geralt, gesturing at the door behind him.

“Your underwear isn’t a new sight for either of us, I believe,” Yen said. “Sit down. There’s work to do.”

“If you need me for witcher work, I’ll at least need my pants.”

“Oh?” said Yen. “That’s not what I heard. Rumor has it that you took on three rock trolls with your knees hanging in the breeze. Really, Geralt, I knew you had a _ thing _for danger, but that’s taking it a bit far, don’t you think?”

Damn Lambert. Damn tailor.

Geralt sighed and flopped into a chair next to Emhyr. “Just don’t tell Dandelion about the trolls, okay? He’d be impressed. It’d end up as a ballad.”

Yen hummed non-commitally. 

“Are you telling me,” Emhyr said slowly, staring at Geralt, “that when you came to my bedroom late that night-”

Yen smirked at Geralt.

“-that you were returning from fighting trolls? In the state you were in?”

“No,” said Geralt. “I mean, I wasn’t drunk when I dealt with the trolls.”

“Dealing with rock trolls while geared in silken undergarments was a _ sober _decision?” Emhyr frowned.

“Well, mostly sober.”

Emhyr’s frown twitched a hair deeper.

“So. What sort of work do you actually need done?” Geralt asked. He looked at the table, where, behind the tea set and books, a large assortment of magical instruments and ingredients were piled. 

Emhyr gave him a Look that promised they were going to talk more about this later, but allowed the subject to be changed. “We’re trying to find someone,” he said. “Yen has several locator spells that may work, but there’s not much to go on. A witcher may have better luck.”

“Sure. Who’re we trying to find?” Geralt asked. 

“My attempted assassin.”

“Your what, now?”

“There was an attempt on His Imperial Highness’ life this morning,” said Yen. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice, what with you two being so close.”

Her lips twisted, causing her flippant tone to come out more bitter than she’d probably intended. Normally having a jealous sorceress focused on him would be alarming, but Geralt had bigger concerns at the moment. 

“Yen,” growled Geralt, then turned back to Emhyr. “Someone tried to kill you?”

“Yes,” said Emhyr, looking bored.

“When? How? And how did you escape?”

“Someone tried to poison my morning tea. The taste tester expired a few minutes after drinking it, well before it was brought to my rooms.”

“Oh.”

“It was not a particularly skillful attempt on my life,” Emhyr said, looking at the cup of tea with contempt. “Still. These things must be discouraged. I had the tea brought here for you and Yennifer to examine.”

Geralt leaned over to pick up the tea cup, only realizing mid-lean that his action placed him firmly in Emhyr’s personal space, the side of his bare chest lightly brushing Emhyr’s doublet. Geralt froze for a second. 

Emhyr’s face was startlingly close from this angle, his cheeks lightly flushed, his eyes bright and suspicious. Geralt could hear his pulse, slightly faster than normal.

Yen coughed pointedly. Geralt grabbed the cup and retreated to his own seat.

He gave the cup a cautious sniff. The poison had a subtle odor, but it strong enough that his witcher senses could detect it easily. 

“Well, by the smell it’s either Bindleweed’s Bane or Nightswallow,” Geralt said. He dipped his finger into the liquid, then licked off a drop. “Hm. Definitely Nightswallow. Nasty one. Expensive, though--we’re probably looking for a noble.”

He looked up to see Emhyr staring at him again. “You did hear the part where the taste tester died?” Emhyr asked in a strained voice.

“Witcher,” said Geralt, shrugging. “I’m resistant to poison.”

“Ah. So the veins around your eyes turning black...”

“Part of the job.”

On the other side of Emhyr, Yen rolled her eyes. “Yes, we’re all very impressed that you didn’t die. So now we know the attempted killer was a noble, as opposed to... what? Did you really think a peasant was the one behind this? We’re no further along than before.”

“I have confidence that between the two of you, you will be able to figure it out,” said Emhyr, standing up. “In the meantime, I have court to attend. My staff has been instructed to provide you with anything you need for your investigation. Send for a courier if you find anything before the day is out.”

He left, and through the door Geralt caught a glimpse of what looked like half the Imperial Guard ready to escort him to the throne room. They looked nervous. 

Incompetent or not, there was still an assassin on the loose. “Maybe I should go with him,” Geralt said. “Just in case.”

“Just in case what? No one is getting through all the guards, including you. Now help me set up this lost object charm--if we can find the cup’s owner, this might be all wrapped up by noon.”

* * *

It was not all wrapped up by noon, or even by the end of the day. The cup had been borrowed from the kitchens, so the locator spell only led them to a well used dishrack, and no one in the kitchens had seen anything odd when the tea had been prepared because they’d all been distracted by a slap fight between two of the chefs. Yen tried interrogating the chefs, but neither had been involved with the poisoning; the whole fight had apparently been brought on by one’s harshly phrased critique of the other’s breakfast ham.

Geralt sampled the ham to make sure it hadn’t been poisoned, and also because he was hungry. It hadn’t been poisoned, though it had been oversalted, and his saying so started the fight all over again. 

By the time the sun set, they’d tried over a dozen different leads that had all been dead ends, and Yen had attempted a handful of tricky looking spells, all of which had fizzled and failed. Geralt was getting close to wearing a hole in Emhyr’s carpet from all his pacing, and Yen’s hair was sticking up at odd angles from where she’d been pulling at it.

“Someone had to have seen something--they’re just not talking,” Yen said, banging her head lightly on the table. 

“Maybe Emhyr had better luck,” said Geralt. “He should be getting back any minute. We can ask him if he managed to glare a confession out of someone.”

Yen sat up at that. “He’ll be back soon? Shit.” She started gathering up her supplies.

“I told you, he’d not going to have you executed for failing.”

“Oh, not today he won’t--I’m sure he’ll give me a bit more time. No, I’m leaving because I don’t want to be trapped in a room alone with the two of you again.” She gave an exaggerated shudder.

“What are you talking about?”

“Really, Geralt. You were half-naked and practically crawling into his lap. And the way he was looking at you… well. I’m happy for your new relationship, I suppose, but not happy enough to put up with you two making bedroom eyes at each other as if I’m not even there.”

“We’re not--oh, never mind.” Geralt paused. “Wait, was he really looking at me like that?”

“We’re not having this conversation.”

She left, and Geralt flopped into one of the comfy armchairs, pouring over his memories of the morning. Had Emhyr been giving him bedroom eyes? His eyes hadn’t seemed any different from normal--intense, focused, and dark, yes. But sexual?

This morning, before Yen’s visit and the assassination business had distracted him, Geralt had intended to corner Emhyr and demand an explanation for the whole consort business. The more he thought about it, though, the more obvious it seemed. 

The tailor’s fancy outfit and Geralt’s late night visit had certainly put Emhyr in an awkward position. Geralt found it difficult to believe, however, that the only solution the Emperor's brilliant, strategic mind could concoct was a fake relationship that required Geralt to share a bed with him. No, the only reason Emhyr would have chosen that route was if it gave him something else he wanted. Say, Geralt.

The physical attraction was definitely there--the flushed cheeks, elevated pulse, and apparent ‘bedroom eyes’ pointed to as much. Between that and the move to name Geralt as consort, the question last night about whether Geralt was staying, and the lingering touch on Geralt’s thigh in the office…

Well. It wasn’t exactly subtle, though it was convoluted and manipulative. Couldn’t the man just ask for a kiss like a normal human?

* * *

Emhyr should have been back within a few minutes of Yen leaving. An hour passed, and Geralt settled down to read one of Emhyr’s books, figuring court had run long. Two hours passed, and he started to fidget. The book--a treatise on wheat cultivation in northern climates--was dry, even by academic standards, and Geralt was starting to get hungry. 

It didn’t make sense to worry. A second assassination attempt so soon after the first would be insane. Even an incompetent assassin would want to wait for them to let their guard down before attempting again.

At three hours, Emhyr still wasn’t back. Geralt threw down the book and stomped into the hallway. 

It was ominously empty. 

Even the two guards that usually stood outside the entrance were conspicuously gone. Geralt swore, and started towards the throne room, his heart racing in a way that he desperately wished he could pretend was just irritation at a delayed dinner. 

As he drew closer, the corridors became more crowded. Groups of nobles and courtiers huddled together in clumps and whispered, shooting each other looks that ranged from frightened to excited. Several were shooting Geralt appraising looks that made him pick up his pace, until he wasn’t _ exactly _ running, but he wasn’t _ not _running, either. 

He was in enough of a panic that when an arm reached out and snagged his elbow, his first instinct was to grab the person’s hand, twisting their wrist in preparation for combat.

Margriet’s wide, startled eyes stopped him before he was able to flip her, though. 

“Geralt!” she said, grabbing his hand his her own. She seemed to have misinterpreted his grip on her wrist as a desire to hold hands, and before he could say anything, she’d clasped his hand between hers and was dragging him into her room.

“Oh, Geralt,” she continued, shutting the door and turning to him. “Isn’t it just terrible?”

“What’s terrible?” he said, shaking his hand out of hers.

She let go, but gripped his shoulders instead, peering up into his eyes. “Oh dear, hasn’t anyone told you the news?”

Geralt gritted his teeth. “News?”

“Why, His Imperial Highness was poisoned.” Her lip wobbled in a way that made Dandelion's acting look convincing. 

“What.”

“Poisoned. He’s been-”

“Emhyr has people test his food. How?”

“It was slow acting. Geralt-”

“What with poison?”

“Geralt, I don’t know. I-”

“When did this happen? Where is he?”

She gave him a pitying look. “It’s too late. Don’t you understand? I know this is hard, but you have to think of the future, now. Think of Cirilla. We must set things up for her smooth transition to power. She’s young--she’ll need your guidance.”

Geralt stared at her.

“This must be so overwhelming. You’ve hardly begun to learn this court’s rules, and now you’re expected to give guidance to its ruler. I’m here for you if you need _ anything _.”

Margriet pulled him into a hug. It was almost comforting--Geralt’s mind was still reeling, and he returned her embrace half out of shock--until her hands drifted slightly further south than was strictly necessary.

“You’re coming on to me?” he said, stepping back. “Seriously? Now? Emhyr’s not even cold and you’re-”

“What? Oh, he’s not dead yet,” said Margriet. 

Geralt breathed in, then breathed out, and heroically didn’t strangle her. “You said it was too late.”

“I also said the poison was slow acting,” Margriet said, crossing her arms. “There’s no antidote, so it is too late. The only thing to do now is to focus on what we can do for Cirilla.”

“There’s no antidote?”

“No.”

“How do you know? You said you didn’t know what he’d been poisoned with.”

Her face paled. “Well, if there was an antidote, I’m sure the palace guards would have fetched it by now. We’d have heard about it. And since we haven’t…”

Geralt seriously reconsidered his decision not to strangle her. “Sure,” he said. “That makes sense. It makes so much sense that we’re going to have a nice, long conversation about it, right after I save Emhyr’s life.”

She swallowed.

“Now,” said Geralt. “Where. Is. He.”

* * *

There was a full supply of witcher potions in Geralt’s, no, Emhyr’s, no, _ their _ rooms. Geralt grabbed some Swallow and Golden Oriole, then sprinted to the ante-chamber off the throne room where Emhyr was being treated. 

The witcher potions might kill Emhyr faster. They might save his body but destroy his mind. There was, however, a slim chance they’d help. And if there was nothing left to lose…

He shouldn’t have let Emhyr walk out of their rooms alone this morning. He should have insisted that he be allowed to follow. Sure, the Imperial guards were good, but they weren’t _ witcher _good. And he should have been the one sampling Emhyr’s food--his witcher senses would have helped him detect any poison in time.

He couldn’t help but wonder if they’d played their last game of Gwent. Had last night been their only night together, and he’d spent it sulking in a tavern? The idea made a hard, cold knot form in his chest.

Death had a nasty, but efficient, way of making things clear.

The halls next to the antechamber were too crowded to run through, so Geralt started pushing people out of his way, using his elbows and fists when necessary to speed up the process. People were swearing and yelling at him, and one noble went so far as to pull out a dueling glove, looking ready to slap Geralt with it, but he took one look at Geralt’s face and decided better.

Geralt rushed past Ciri, fast enough that he barely had time to take in her grim face and the crowd of nobles clustered around her. 

“Geralt!” she yelled as he passed. “Wait! We need to talk..”

There were guards barring the door to the antechamber. 

“Move,” said Geralt.

“No one is allowed to enter,” said one of them.

“I’m the consort, aren’t I?”

The guard shifted nervously. “No one is allowed to enter?” he repeated.

“I have potions that might save the Emperor.”

“Er, no one-”

“I don’t have time for this,” said Geralt, and started to shove past them. 

The guard grabbed at Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt spun, planting his feet and using the man’s own grip to flip him onto his back. The other guard started forward, so Geralt swept his legs out from under him, using a heel jab to the groin while he was down to keep him there. 

“Geralt!” Ciri was running towards him. “Stop attacking people! You need to listen-”

“No time,” said Geralt, and shoved his way into the room, feeling something--probably a latch or small chain--snap as he forced the doors open.

A table full of guards looked up at him in shock. Emhyr’s private physician was there as well, though he seemed to be playing cards with the guards, not treating his patient. As if he’d already given up.

Geralt snarled at him. “Where’s Emhyr?”

The man pointed towards a side door. “But he’s-”

Geralt didn’t wait for him to finish talking. He ran through the door, into the side room--

\--where Emhyr was sitting calmly at a desk, reading some paperwork.

“Hello, Geralt,” said Emhyr, not looking up from his parchment.

Geralt stared at Emhyr. 

“Can I help you with something?” Emhyr asked, after a minute passed, and Geralt still hadn’t said anything. 

“You’re not dying,” Geralt said.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Disappoint? Emhyr, what’s going on?”

Geralt walked towards him, looking closely at his face--but no, there was no discoloration, no shaking. He picked up on of Emhyr’s hands, examining the fingers, the nails, the veins on the back, but everything looked fine.

“There was an antidote?” Geralt asked. 

“No,” said Emhyr softly, looking at his hand. Geralt was still holding it, and found he couldn’t be bothered to let it go.

“There was no poison,” Geralt said. 

“There was, but I didn’t ingest is as I’ve allowed the court to believe.”

Geralt closed his eyes and counted to ten. 

“The tea wasn’t the only piece of my breakfast that was poisoned,” Emhyr continued. “The assassin, or rather assassins, apparently decided on a quantity over quality approach.” He looked irritated by the assassins’ incompetence. Geralt wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh, or snap, or kiss the man.

“And you didn’t mention that this morning because...?”

“Letting everyone believe the attempt had been successful was the best way of flushing out the assassin. I have spies circulating the palace, noting different reactions to my situation, and reporting back.”

“But why not tell me? Or Ciri?”

“He told me,” said Ciri from the doorway. She gave Emhyr a reproachful look. “And I _ thought _he’d told you as well. It was a terrible idea to leave Geralt out of this. He took out two of your guards, you know. One of them is crying.”

“Really? That was a bit over dramatic,” said Emhyr, frowning at Geralt.

“Over dramatic? Over dramatic!” 

“Just so.”

“I thought you were dying!”

“I’m going to let you guys talk this over,” said Ciri, backing into the other room and closing the door behind her. 

“And if I was dying? What would assaulting my guards accomplish?”

“They were stopping me from getting in. I brought some witcher potions--I thought that if all other options failed-”

“That what? You’d fry my brains and keep my body alive? I heard what happened to the last regular human to whom you gave a witcher potion.”

“It was a last resort,” said Geralt. “Emhyr, I thought this was it. I thought ...dammit, you know what I thought. You let me think it, on purpose. You’re not even going to apologize, are you?”

“Apologize for what?”

“I was worried!”

“I don’t see why.” Emhyr looked genuinely puzzled.

Geralt gaped at him. “You’re serious? I ran the whole way here, imagining you writhing in agony, or foaming at the mouth, or your skin turning blue, or your throat swelling and your stomach bloating-”

“Alright.”

“-or your fingers turning black and dropping off, or your eyes bleeding, or-”

“I get the picture,” said Emhyr.

Geralt squeezed his hand, maybe a bit too tightly--Emhyr shook him off with an irritated huff, so Geralt cupped his face, instead. He watched as Emhyr’s eyes widened in surprise.

It was funny how much simpler things seemed now, with his heart still hammering in his chest and his hands on Emhyr’s cheeks. He could feel Emhyr’s warmth, and his pulse--steady, though a bit fast. Geralt leaned closer.

This whole time he’d been worried about whether he was interested in committing to a long term relationship with Emhyr, but he’d failed to think that there might not be a long term for either of them. Emhyr could get stabbed in the back tomorrow, or Geralt might take on one drowner too many, and that would be that. And if that did happen, Geralt now knew for certain that he’d regret not having given it a shot.

Would it last? He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. But he was willing to find out the hard way.

Emhyr’s lips were just as soft as he’d imagined. They parted slightly as Emhyr gasped, and Geralt used the opportunity to press in closer, his tongue swiping across Emhyr’s.

Emhyr relaxed into the kiss for a moment, and for that moment it was perfect--the faint scrape of stubble, his quiet moan--more felt than heard--as Geralt nibbled on his lower lip. Then Emhyr pulled back, his mouth pressed into a frown.

“I think we’re done here,” Emhyr said, standing up and back from Geralt. 

“What? Was it my breath?”

Emhyr rang a bell on his desk, and guards rushed in.

“A simple, ‘No, I’m not interested,’ would’ve been enough,” said Geralt, eyeing the guards.

The guards eyed him back nervously, but they were well trained, and approached when Emhyr beckoned for them.

“Take Geralt to the dungeons for questioning,” said Emhyr. “Use the dimeritium shackles--I don’t want him using signs.”

Geralt watched, too stunned to even try to evade the guards as they snapped the shackles around his wrists. “You know, if you didn’t want a kiss, you were definitely sending mixed signals what with making me consort and asking me to share your bed.”

“This isn’t about what I want--it’s about what you want,” said Emhyr, watching him being dragged from the room with a grim look of satisfaction.

“Oh? And what do I want?”

“What everyone wants: power. I have to admit, I’m disappointed. I thought you were more creative than that.”

“The disappointment is mutual,” said Geralt. “I’d imagined this playing out differently.”

Ciri and Mererid were there now, too, watching them in shock--and in Mererid’s case, barely restrained glee.

“Your Highness?” Mererid said. “May I inquire as to what has transpired between you and Sir Geralt?”

“Yeah,” said Ciri. “The fuck?”

“Geralt is being arrested for treason,” said Emhyr, calmly.

“What?” said Geralt.

“You’re joking,” said Ciri.

“I’ll inform the inquisitor,” said Mererid, smiling. “He’ll need a few minutes to prepare the hot pokers.”

At least someone was happy.

* * *

Geralt’s plan had been, according to Emhyr, fairly straightforward. 

“He arrived at my quarters early for dinner,” Emhyr explained. “And returned the next day, and the day after, making sure to spend at least an hour playing Gwent with me. Those watching would have jumped to the obvious conclusion: that we were having a secret affair. The lover angle gave him sway he wouldn’t have otherwise had in the court, while the clandestine nature of our supposed arrangement left him free to pursue other romantic partners without fear of reprisal.”

“You think Geralt--who once used a Duchess’ lap dog as a napkin during a formal dinner--was orchestrating an elaborate courtly power play?” Ciri seemed torn between laughing and smacking Emhyr. Geralt could relate.

“Not alone. His lover, Madame Margriet Paskamp, has been coaching him.”

“It’s still a bit far fetched. This is Geralt we’re talking about,” said Ciri. “You have met him, right?”

Emhyr gave Geralt a sharp look. “Yes, I have. Anyone who buys your ‘simple, uncomplicated witcher’ routine has clearly never played Gwent against you, or taken the time to engage you in conversation. Displaying your intelligence was your first mistake--if you’d played dumb, I might not have thought you capable of such deciept.”

“Er. Thanks?” said Geralt. “I think you’re smart, too.” 

“Stop smiling, Geralt. This isn’t a sweet moment. He’s got you in the dungeons,” Ciri said.

She had a point. “Other than being good at Gwent and not an idiot, which I’ll give you, none of that is true. I wasn’t trying to pretend that I was your lover, I wasn’t angling for extra power at court, and Margreit and me aren’t involved. She’s just been helping me with my accent.”

“Yes, I’m sure your ‘elocution lessons’ provided the perfect excuse to meet alone for long periods of time. She was clearly using you to gain influence over Cirilla-”

“Yeah, I caught onto that one,” said Geralt. “She wasn’t super subtle.”

“-and you were using her to help you navigate court politics. And _ both _of you were using me to give yourselves power that you wouldn’t otherwise have had.” Emhyr glared. “I don’t like being used.” 

“Really? ‘Cause for someone who doesn’t like being used, you’re sure acting like a tool.”

“Geralt,” said Ciri. “Not now. Emhyr, don’t you think you’re reading a bit too much into a couple games of Gwent?”

“What other reason would there be for coming to my private chambers? Am I to believe he was visiting to bask in my sparkling personality?” Emhyr said. “I've given this considerable thought, and pretending to be my lover is the most likely explanation. When I realized what Geralt was doing, I decided to up the ante. I began inviting him to Gwent every evening, expecting that he’d quickly become irritated or nervous, and would break off the charade. I’d get the entertainment of watching him squirm, caught in his own machinations, and it would solve the problem of his attempted manipulation. But he surprised me.”

“You’re not the only one who’s surprised,” said Geralt. “Wait, did you really invite me to Gwent all those nights just to screw with me? You weren’t having fun at all?”

Emhyr had seemed so relaxed, even happy--more so as the days had gone by and their games had become a regular thing. Most nights he’d be either lounged back, wine in hand, deep in thought as he surveyed Geralt’s latest move, or leaned forward, eyes sharp, voice passionate as he and Geralt debated politics.

And Geralt had loved every moment of it. 

“That’s not the point,” said Emhyr. “As I was saying, you surprised me. You shouldn’t have--after all those games of Gwent, I should have known better than to underestimate you. But when you showed up in royal-quality clothing, I realized I’d miscalculated.”

Geralt knew it. It was all the tailor’s fault.

“Rather than back down from the idea that you were my lover, you were using those extra hours spent in my quarters to raise the stakes,” Emhyr said, “even going so far as to use an extravagant outfit to imply that our relationship was much more serious than a casual affair. So I decided to call your bluff: name you as consort, and move you into my rooms. As an official consort, you wouldn’t have the freedom of a casual lover. You would be required to give up your other partners, and I predicted neither you nor Madame Paskamp would be willing to do that. Again, I expected you to give up and back down. And again, I was wrong.”

Emhyr looked half-irritated, half-impressed by Geralt’s unpredictability. 

This was definitely not how Geralt had imagined their first kiss going. 

“Alright, enough,” said Ciri. “Skip to the part where he commits treason.”

“I had been partially correct,” Emhyr said. “Geralt _ wasn’t _willing to give up Paskamp or the power that came with being my lover. Instead of backing down, however, he and Paskamp moved to depose me. A court sorcerer scryed Lady Anje DeWitt adding various poisons to my breakfast tray after having distracted the kitchen with an oversalted ham. I suspect Paskamp planted the idea in her head, but I doubt Paskamp would incriminate herself in any way that I can use to imprison her.”

“Can’t you just lock her up on a hunch? You did with me” said Geralt.

“I could, but not without alienating her allies--who are Cirilla’s supporters--and not without passing up the opportunity to root out any fellow conspirators. That’s why I said I’d caught one of the poisons, and spread the rumor that I’d ingested one of the others: I wanted to see how people would react to the possibility of failure, and then to the possibility of success. I’d hoped Paskamp and her allies would make a fatal mistake. You were the only one to do so, however.”

“Running to your side with potions to save your life was a mistake?” 

“No, but sleeping with Yennefer instead of investigating the poison wasn’t great.”

“Geralt, you didn’t!” Ciri said, shocked.

“No, I didn’t. What?”

“She was seen exiting my suite in a hurry, with her hair in a mess.”

“Because she was pulling on it! Because we spent all day trying to find the assassin that you apparently already had imprisoned, you ass.” 

“Regardless. You then met with Paskamp, holding her hand and retreating to her rooms for a private conversation, after which you ran to retrieve witcher potions--potions which would, I remind you, likely have left me a mindless husk. If you had administered them, you’d have kept me alive but incapacitated, delaying Ciri’s inheritance and leaving the rulership of the Empire in limbo, with yourself in a position of significant influence. It was a masterful move.”

“Alright,” said Geralt. “Okay. Sure. Let’s pretend any of that made sense. You still waited for me to kiss you before having me arrested. Why?”

Emhyr was quiet for a moment. “I confess,” he said softly, “that I’ve grown...accustomed to your company over the past few weeks. I found myself reluctant to believe the worst of you. When you kissed me, it meant one of two things: either you were desperate enough to distract me from your treachery that you were willing to engage in sexual acts, or you truly harbored romantic intentions towards me. Either way, a public imprisonment was the next logical next move.”

“Yeah. Logical,” said Geralt. 

“Imprisonment seems a bit drastic,” said Ciri. “You could have just talked to him about all this, you know.”

“My own judgement is compromised when it comes to Geralt,” said Emhyr. His mouth twisted ever so slightly down. “Luckily, there are other options available to us. Mererid, find me a sorceress. One that Geralt hasn’t seduced yet, if such a thing is possible.”

* * *

The mage that Mererid eventually dug up was a small, mousy woman that Geralt had never met. With the help of an entourage of assistants, she set up a magic circle in the center of the room. Geralt was let down from the wall and, with the guards’ swords drawn and at the ready, his dimeritium shackles were taken off and swapped with regular iron ones.

He stepped into the center of the circle, rubbing at his chained wrists and glaring at Emhyr, who looked calmly back at him for a moment before joining him. 

The circle wasn’t big--at least, not big enough to comfortably hold two grown men. In order to fit in the center, Emhyr was standing almost chest to chest with Geralt. He was close enough that Geralt could feel his breath. Geraly would only have to lean in a little and they’d be kissing--but that hadn’t worked out so well the last time.

Geralt’s medallion started to hum, and the circle began to fill with a white light.

It was a soft, pleasant glow, and its magic sent gentle tingles over Geralt’s skin. He couldn’t help but think that, under different circumstances--say, alone with Emhyr in his quarters--the lighting and gentle sensations might have set a bit of a mood.

“Well, this is romantic,” said Geralt. 

Emhyr’s eyes flicked down to the circle, then back up to his. “Hmm. Do you wish to harm me?”

“If you think I do, maybe standing this close isn’t the best idea.”

“You wouldn’t kill me in front of Cirilla. Now answer the question: do you wish to harm me?”

“Emhyr, you just chained me up in a dungeon. I’m not exactly wishing you the best of health.”

The light from the circle flared red for a moment.

“False,” said the mage.

“I can see that,” said Emhyr. “Did you attempt to poison me?”

“No.”

“Did you assist Madame Paskamp in trying to poison me?”

“No.”

“Did you sleep with Yen instead of searching for my assassin?”

“Not really the biggest issue here, but also: no.”

The circle stayed white.

“What were you trying to accomplish by allying yourself with Paskamp?” Emhyr asked.

“Improving my accent.”

Still white. 

Emhyr didn’t look reassured. “As a Nordling, the notion of being intimate with another man couldn’t have been an easy falsehood for you to stomach. You wouldn’t have undertaken such a role without a purpose. If you weren’t working with Paskamp, then what was your reason for pretending to be in a relationship with me?”

“Easy to stomach? Emhyr, you’re not seriously expecting me to have the same hang ups as the average Temerian peasant, are you? The same peasants, who, you know, spit on me when I ride by. I’ve been in relationships with other men before, and I _ wasn’t _pretending to be in a relationship with you.”

“Then why visit my quarters? Why play Gwent with me?”

“Because I wanted to. Because it was fun. Is that really so hard to believe?”

“Yes,” said Emhyr, frowning. “Are you saying you weren’t plotting _ anything _?”

“Try not to sound so disappointed. I was there because I enjoy spending time with you. Well, usually. Today hasn’t been great.”

Emhyr was silent for a moment, studying his face sceptically, as if suspicious Geralt had found a way of lying that wouldn’t be caught by the spell. Geralt tried not to think too hard about what kind of a life would cause a person to believe that anyone spending time with them was doing so with an ulterior motive. Ciri was set up to inherit that same life, dammit. Morvran had better help her with the social isolation, or Geralt was going to kick his ass.

“And you?” Geralt asked. “Were you really just inviting me over as part of your plot?”

“There may have been ways to deal with the situation that didn’t involve asking you to play Gwent every night,” admitted Emhyr.

The circle flashed red.

“Fine. There were definitely other ways to deal with the situation.”

“So you invited me to Gwent because you liked having me over.” Geralt grinned, and from this close he could see Emhyr’s left eye twitch slightly in irritation.

“Gwent with you was,” Emhyr hesitated, as if the next word pained him,”...fun.”

White light.

Geralt’s grin widened. “And my company?”

“Passable.”

Red light.

“Invigorating,” said Emhyr through gritted teeth. “Intoxicating. The highlight of my day. Happy now?”

The light was still white.

“Very,” said Geralt.

“Maybe this conversation could be continued in private,” said Ciri.

“Yeah. The shackles and audience of armed guards really aren’t doing it for me,” said Geralt.

Red light.

Emhyr looked thoughtful.

“Well, I’m out,” said Ciri. She left the cell, and Mererid, looking faintly ill, followed her. 

Geralt turned to Emhyr, but he was stepping back, to Geralt’s disappointment (and to the visibly mixed disappointment and relief of the remaining guards). 

“When I said publicly arresting you was the logical move, no matter your intentions, I meant it,” Emhyr said, waving forward the mage to clean up her circle. Geralt stepped out of her way, and at another gesture from Emhyr a guard hurried forward to free Geralt’s hands.

“You want everyone to think I’ve taken the fall for the assassination attempt,” said Geralt. 

“Yes. I need people to believe you’re in prison.”

“Why?”

Emhyr smiled. “How do you feel about masquerades?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the well wishes! I'm feeling a lot better this week :D

The tailor, damn him, had outdone himself again.

“Isn’t the goal to  _ not  _ stand out?” Geralt asked, frowning at himself in the mirror. 

“It’s a masquerade,” said Ciri. “Everyone is trying to stand out. Trying to stand out is how you blend in.”

He could see Ciri’s point, but he suspected he was going to stand out regardless. In stark opposition to the normal deep hues of the Nilfgaardian court, the tailor had dressed Geralt in soft white, with thick gold filigree around his hems and delicate strands of embroidery woven through the front of his doublet. 

It was far too intricate to have been started in the past few days. The tailor, when pressed, admitted that he’d originally intended it to be for Geralt’s official introduction to the court as the Imperial Consort, whatever that meant. 

To hide his white hair, the tailor had found a matching white and gold hat--complete with white and gold feathers--that covered his head. A gold mask covered the upper half of his face, shielding his eyes but leaving his mouth and jaw exposed. He was clean-shaven, now, which in itself was enough of a change from his normal appearance that it should help disguise him, and Emhyr had assured him that his accent and newfound manners would do the rest.

Geralt felt like there was a veiled insult in there, but hadn’t had a chance to call Emhyr on it. As soon as the plan had been hammered out, Emhyr had swept off, leaving Geralt to stew in the dungeon for appearances sake. Or at least, that’s what Emhyr had said--Geralt suspected he was also getting revenge on Geralt for trying to dose him with witcher potions.

“You look great,” Ciri reassured him, catching him checking his reflection again.

“I’m not worried about that,” said Geralt. “It’s just...are you sure people won’t recognize me?”

“You’re practically respectable.  _ I _ barely recognize you.”

Geralt punched her lightly in the arm, causing the guards around in the room to have small conniption fits. “You’re one to talk,” he said. “Just yesterday you were yea high, running around with a wooden stick, stabbing at cobwebs and pretending you were slaying foglets. Now look at you.”

Ciri didn’t just look good, she looked regal. Powerful. Her hair had been pulled back high onto her head, and was interwoven with pearls and strings of silver. The tailor had given her a deep red gown with black lace--it said ‘danger’ and ‘power’ and it suited her almost as well as her witcher gear had. Even her steel-toe boots had been dressed up, with silk red ribbons where the laces would normally be.

“Oh hush,” she said, and punched him back. Her guards shifted closer nervously.

Geralt reached out and tweaked her ear just to see their reactions. One guard twitched so hard he actually stumbled.

Ciri gave Geralt a look that said she knew what he was doing, and swatted his hand away. “I have to get to the party,” she said, then, in a gentle voice, “It’ll be okay, you know. He’s gonna be fine.”

“I’m not worried about him,” Geralt said. 

“Sure.”

“What? I know he’s safe. He always is, even if it’s at everyone else’s expense.”

“I take it you two haven’t had a chance to talk yet, then?”

Geralt kicked the leg of a nearby chair. “No.”

Ciri sighed. “You’re both idiots.”

“I’ve been locked in the dungeons for the past two days, Ciri--it’s not like I could just wander up and chat with him.”

“Then talk to him tonight.”

“Before the assassination attempt, or after?”

“I’m sure you’ll find the time,” she said, before sweeping out of the room. 

* * *

He’d been taken to an out-of-the-way room near the dungeons to get dressed. No one had seen him enter the room (Emhyr’s guards had made sure of that) but he still waited several minutes after Ciri left before making his way to the pre-party mingling in the gardens.

His first thought was to wonder how he was supposed to find Margriet in a whole crowd of people wearing masks. Then he stepped out into the light and realized that it wouldn’t be an issue. With the way people were staring at him, she was going to find him first.

Despite Ciri’s assurances, he stood out. Everyone was dressed in vibrant colors and elaborately layered fabrics, and there he was, in all white, looking like a confused noonwraith who’d wandered into the party by accident and decided to just go with it. As he walked through the crowd, heads turned and people whispered, which in itself that wasn’t unusual--as a witcher he was used to crowds making way for him--but it was usually out of revulsion, not interest.

He didn’t get much further than the first courtyard before he was pulled into a conversation with a group of nobles. He found himself almost thankful to Margriet--the test run at the racetracks had prepared him well enough that he was able to navigate the introductions without too much trouble, sticking to the script Emhyr had provided him: he was the second cousin of an obscure but notable duke, visiting from his estate in Toussaint. Geralt was even able to supplement his story with actual tidbits of information about his vineyards, though everyone’s eyes started to glaze over when he went into the details about ideal soil acidity.

Well. He could work with that. 

He leaned into the ‘dull wine enthusiast’ angle whenever he talked, which seemed effective in limiting how many questions he was asked. 

Geralt was eventually able to extricate himself from the group, but as soon as he did, he was pulled into another. And then another. From what Geralt could tell, though, that was all part of the dance. He’d introduce himself, chat (about wine, exclusively, and in excruciating detail) then politely disengage and join the stream of other party goers who were going through the same motions, before being drawn into another eddy of conversation.

The only enjoyable part of the whole event was that there were servants swirling around with little trays of delicious, though insultingly small, servings of snacks. The etiquette instructor had struggled a bit on this particular lesson--it was not considered polite to grab the entire platter, Geralt had been irritated to learn. Still, he minded his manners, and only took a small handful of little meat cubes when their tray went by. He even ate them one at a time, instead of just cramming them all into his mouth at once, even though that would have been the only way to make them into a full bite. His instructor would have been proud. Well, her smile might have been less strained than usual, anyways.

It wasn’t long before he found himself in front of Margriet.

She knew him instantly, her eyes locking onto his as he introduced himself to the group she was in. She’d spent too long listening to his voice to mistake who he was, even with the mask. He returned her shocked stare, giving her a tight smile and nodding his head towards the edge of the courtyard, where benches and shadowy alcoves served as spots for lovers to meet and converse privately, among other things.

The others in the group tittered and whispered when Mergriet nodded and hooked her arm through his. They made their way to a dark alcove in silence, only stopping along the way for Geralt to grab more snacks--paper thin ham slices rolled around cheese, this time.

“Would the gentleman like me to get a plate for the lady?” the servant asked as Geralt grabbed a second handful.

“Hmm? No thanks.”

A passing noble gave Geralt a wink. “Having a plate is such a waste when you have a lover’s hands, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Geralt waited until they were out of sight before stuffing the first handful in his mouth. Margreit watched him with barely concealed disgust, which was probably the first honest expression he’d ever gotten from her. 

“You know, you’re only supposed to take one at a time,” she said, arms crossed.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. They’re tiny.”

“And don’t talk with your mouth full.”

He laughed, and yeah, there was a bit of sprayage, so maybe she had a point. Still… “You had me practice talking with my mouth full for the last month. Might as well get some use of it. Besides, haven’t had anything to eat but gruel for the past few days. I’m hungry.”

That wasn’t strictly true--his dungeon meals had been surprisingly robust, and definitely better than what he’d have been getting if he’d been found guilty, but lunch  _ had  _ been a long time ago.

Margriet grimaced, and wiped a stray bit of ham from her cheek. “Well, that’s what you get for trying to poison the Emperor. Speaking of, you’re not in the dungeons...how, exactly?”

“Ciri snuck me out. Couldn’t bear to see her poor ol’ foster dad chained up,” said Geralt, tossing a couple more ham bits into his mouth. “And please--we both know you were behind the attempted poisonings.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Emhyr’s already got Anje down there. I know you planted the idea in her head.”

She gave him a considering look. “What are you basing these accusations on?”

“You knew that there was no antidote. Only could have known that if you were involved to some degree. Plus you wanted Ciri on the throne. It probably would have been better for you if you’d been successful at getting me into bed first--that way you’d have been in a position of influence over the Empress--but even without me, you see Ciri as someone you can control. Bad read on that situation, by the way. Without me, Ciri wouldn’t give a fuck what you said.”

“If I’d planned such a thing, which I did not,” Margriet said, “I’d probably have figured on wooing you once Emhyr was out of the picture.”

Dammit. “So this assassination, which you definitely didn’t take part in: it was sped up when you thought me and Emhyr were getting serious?”

“Yes. Hypothetically, it wouldn’t do to have my ticket to power tucked away in Emhyr’s bed, forgetting I existed.”

It really was all the tailor's fault. “And plan B was regicide.”

“Nothing so crude, Geralt! If I did anything, which I didn’t, it was only hoping out loud to Anje that someone would rid us of him.”

“You suggested a few poisons, too, I’m sure, and methods of administering them.”

“Well, you can’t blame a lady for being thorough in her flights of fancy. And if Anje’d had half a brain, she’d have listened to my hypothetical daydream of using something slow-acting and incurable, instead of poisoning every single damn piece of the meal with every variety of poison she could get her hands on, and we’d be having a very different conversation right now.” 

“Well, that’s what you get for relaying important information through hypothetical daydreams.”

She laughed. “Oh, but it’s so hard to have honest, direct conversations these days, Geralt. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find someone you can trust.”

“Yeah? Because one moment I had a new lover, then out of nowhere he falsely accuses me of treason and throws me into the dungeons. There are rats in the dungeon, you know. Hungry rats. And witcher toes taste pretty damn good to them. I think I understand how trusting someone can be difficult. That’s why I’m not here to ask you for trust.”

“What are you here to ask for, then?”

“An exchange. You need me to control Ciri after Emhyr is gone. I need someone experienced in court politics to keep everyone in line. And we both need a plan to get to the ‘after’ part.”

“I see your point, and yes--I do believe we can help each other out.” Margriet smiled, sharp and mean. “You’re wrong about needing a plan, though.”

“Oh?” Geralt frowned. He already had a bottle of poison tucked into his pocket--one that Emhyr had the antidote for, if things got out of control.

The plan had been to stop it before that point, though. Geralt just needed Margriet to poison some wine, and, more importantly, to reveal if she had any other conspirators. At that point Geralt could summon the guards and have the whole lot tossed in the dungeons, preferably before the dance got going and he was forced to participate.

“I’m not foolish enough to think Emhyr is ignorant of my...potential to have been involved in the attempt on his life,” Margriet said. “I know I’m under suspicion. I couldn’t wait around for a witcher to swoop in and save the day, you know.”

“What are you planning?”

“Ah, but you said you weren’t here to ask for trust. Don’t worry Geralt--I’ve got it under control.”

* * *

Geralt had to get to Emhyr. Unfortunately, so did everyone else. 

Emhyr was at the back of the ballroom, Ciri next to him, and what looked like half the Capital was crowded around him. To make things worse, the dancing had started and everyone wanted a turn with the mysterious, white-clad stranger.

“No,” he said to the first invitation.

“I’m busy,” he said to the second.

The third didn’t ask, just grabbed him and started twirling. She had a grip that would make a drowner jealous, and while Geralt could have flipped her onto her back and disabled her, he didn’t need his etiquette lessons to tell him that would be poorly received. 

He could just rip off his mask and charge over there to warn Emhyr, but Geralt knew that if he did, Emhyr would give him that disappointed face. The strategic thing to do--the thing Emhyr would want him to do--would be to alert Emhyr or Ciri to the danger while maintaining cover, and keep up the act while he rooted out any fellow conspirators. 

So instead of wrestling his way out of the over-zealous noble's hold, he went along with her, and tried to scan the crowd for threats as he was herded around the dance floor. It was hard to tell between the spinning and the masks, but he thought he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure moving in Emhyr’s direction.

It looked like Evert--the other friend of Margriet’s from the racetracks. Geralt couldn’t be sure from this distance, with the masks and the crowd and the whirling, but the figure had the same slicked back, blond hair, and the same nervous, shuffling gait.

Geralt grinned. This was good news. Evert was considerably less intelligent than Margriet.

As the dance wrapped up he disentangled himself from his dance partner and made a beeline for the figure, and yeah--it was definitely Evert. His cologne was probably unmistakeable even to those without witcher senses. And he was definitely trying to get to Emhyr, though he was running into the same issues getting through the crowd that Geralt was. 

Geralt elbowed his way through several more offers to dance and tapped Evert on the shoulder. 

“What? Oh,” said Evert, his eyes widening as he took in who had interrupted him. He smiled, evidently not recognizing Geralt, but clearly impressed by his clothing and physique. 

“May I have the pleasure of this dance?” Geralt asked, offering his hand.

Evert’s eyes darted from his hand to Emhyr, almost too fast to notice, cementing Geralt’s suspicion that he was involved with this whole clusterfuck. “Er,” he said. “I actually had some business to take care of...”

“Surely it can wait one dance,” said Geralt, and then, when Evert still looked undecided, added, “I saw you from across the dance floor, and couldn’t take my eyes off you.” Technically not a lie.

Evert straightened and preened a bit. “Well, I suppose I could spare one dance.” 

Geralt didn’t give him the chance to reconsider. He grabbed Evert’s hand and dragged him onto the dance floor. 

“You’re certainly eager,” said Evert, looking flattered as Geralt started rushing him through the first steps.

“You have no idea,” said Geralt. He gripped Evert’s shoulder with one hand, and his hand with the other, squeezing tight enough to border on painful. 

“Hey! That hurts.”

“Good,” said Geralt. “Now, tell me how you’re planning to kill the Emperor.” 

* * *

It was a good thing that Geralt had held onto Evert so tightly--the man’s first response had been to whimper and try to flee, and only Geralt’s iron grip had kept him from sprinting off into the night. It took the better part of the dance for him to stop hyperventilating, and another full dance for Geralt to convince him that the mysterious stranger he was dancing with was: Geralt; not going to immediately kill him; and here at Paskamp’s request to assist Evert in the assassination. 

Once he’d calmed down, Evert listened to Geralt’s whispered explanation of his escape from the dungeons and subsequent alliance with Paskamp with a wide-eyed sort of wonder.

“And so now you’ve sworn vengeance on the lover who scorned you. You’re a fugitive bent on righting wrongs that were done to your heart,” said Evert. 

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “That.”

“And Margriet really sent you here to help me?”

Geralt nodded. “There isn’t much time, though. I need you to fill me in on the details, then I can carry out the dangerous part for you. I’m a witcher after all: we train for this sort of stuff.”

There really wasn’t much time--Geralt could see Margreit on the fringes of the crowd, giving him and Evert a furious glare. 

Evert smiled, clearly relieved, and also clearly not having caught sight of Margriet. “Oh, good. I’m not cut out for this sort of thing, you know. If it wasn’t for the fact that my head was on the line-”

“What? Did Margriet threaten you?”

Evert gave him a confused look. “No, it’s the Emperor. Margriet told me and Anje all about his plans to execute us for having dared to touch you. It’s either him or us, at this point.”

Well. That explained why such a spineless noble would agree to participate in an assassination attempt.

“Was there anyone else involved? I wouldn’t want to accidentally interrupt Paskamp’s plans. You know how she is,” Geralt said.

Evert nodded. “You should have seen her when Lady Genevieve wore a similar dress as her to Phillipe’s ball last winter. Her plans for the evening were ruined. I thought Margriet was going to kill her…”

“Did she?”

“Hmm?”

“Kill her?”

“No, but she did socially eviscerate her in front of a Duke--Genevieve might have preferred actual death to having to smile through Margriet’s comments about the state of her gardens.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I feel like copying her sense of fashion. Now, what about her plans to kill the Emperor?” 

“Oh, yes. Well, there’s me--I’ve got a small vial of poison to slip into his drink when I get close.”

Probably not a threat, given Evert’s general lack of competence. “And?” said Geralt. “Who else is in on this?”

Margriet had roped herself a dance partner, and was steering him in Geralt’s direction with a determined glint in her eyes. Geralt spun Evert around a few times, disorienting him, then dragged him towards the far side of the dance floor, putting as many couples in between them and the advancing Margriet as possible. 

“Well, I suspect that she doesn’t have the most confidence in my abilities,” said Evert, further proving that Margriet had a good--if murderous--head on her shoulders. “She recommended I have a back up plan. She knew of a guard who had a brother up north that got caught in the crossfire between the Imperial army and the Temerian resistance. He’s got a grudge, and has a poisoned dagger that he’ll use to finish the job if I can’t. One scratch will do the trick.”

So Evert would try to poison the Emperor--if he succeeded, then Margriet’s goal was accomplished. In the more likely event that he failed, the guards would swarm Evert, and in the confusion Emhyr would get nicked by a poison dagger. Whether or not the guard got caught or not was immaterial--Emhyr would be dead, and Evert would take the blame for it. 

“Which guard?” asked Geralt. 

“The one with the red hair.”

Geralt spun to get a better look--and yeah, of course he was one of the guards closest to Emhyr. The red-haired guard was a foot or two behind Emhyr, watching the scene on the dance floor suspiciously. 

Well, that ruled out dropping everything and rushing to Emhyr’s side. At such a close distance, the guard could get to Emhyr in a second. There was no way Geralt would be able to cross the distance, and the crowd, between them before the guard made his move. 

There was, however, someone who could.

Margriet had reached the spot where he and Evert were talking. “Thanks for the dance!” Geralt said, then shoved Evert aside, ignoring his pained, “hey!” in favor of grabbing Margriet before she could do something to signal the guard. 

Margriet’s dance partner let go of her with a startled noise, and then Geralt was off, moving them away from Emhyr. From the corner of his eye, he could see the red-haired guard relax.

Margriet stared at him, bewildered. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Geralt didn’t bother to answer. It didn’t matter what she thought, anymore, so long as she didn’t get the chance to act.

Ciri and Morvran had started a dance towards the center of the room, and damned if they didn’t look regal--Ciri in her flowing gown, Morvran in his elegant suit, and the both of them laughing quietly while flowing perfectly through the dance steps. They looked happy. Geralt almost felt bad for barging in between them and stuffing Margriet into Morvran’s arms.

“What-” started Morvran, but Geralt didn’t give him time to finish.

“Hold her,” he said, and then, before anyone had the chance to react, he spun Ciri to face him. “Emhyr. Now. Guard with the red hair.”

Ciri nodded and gripped his arm. There was a flash of cold from her teleportation powers activating, and a burst of light.

The world disappeared.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, this is the last chapter! Thank you everyone who's given this story a shot! Your sweet comments make me squeal with happiness every time I read them. You all rock <3
> 
> Also, I just saw the Netflix trailer for the witcher tv series, and I'm super hopeful? And excited? And nervous? I really want it be good *fingers crossed*

Geralt had tagged along on one of Ciri’s little teleportation blinks before--he hadn’t liked it then, and didn’t like it now, especially since Emhyr was far enough away that Ciri couldn’t make it in one jump.

Their first blink was into a crowd of chatting aristocrats who started screaming as the Empress in waiting appeared, and then, in a heartbeat, was gone again, popping up seconds later further down the room on top of a serving table. Geralt’s foot phased into existence halfway-through a turkey with a sad, wet squelch.

He really, really hated teleportation.

A third hop, and they were at the edge of the crowd around Emhyr. A fourth hop: the base of the stairs.

Geralt saw the guard’s eyes widen, and his hand go to his belt, and then-

A fifth hop: they were there. 

Behind him, he could hear the ballroom erupting into shocked shouts and screams. The court had evidently never seen Ciri’s power before--somehow, Geralt doubted they’d be underestimating her again after this. 

Emhyr was looking at them, startled. “What-” he started to say, and then Geralt saw the guard’s dagger begin to plunge towards Emhyr’s back.

The guard was fast, but not witcher fast, and Geralt moved to stop him. Or at least, he tried to. His foot stuck and twisted--the turkey, he realized, was still around his ankle, and instead of grabbing the guard’s wrist he ended up smashing headfirst into his stomach and knocking them both onto the ground.

A sharp pain pierced his shoulder, followed by a burst of light as Ciri blinked into a position that placed her heel squarely on the guard’s neck. The guard gurgled weakly and scrabbled at her boot with his hands--his empty hands, Geralt noticed with alarm. Where was the poison dagger?

He twisted around to check on Emhyr. Emhyr’s eyes were wide, and his fists were clenched, but Geralt didn’t spot any dagger holes in him.

He tried to raise himself to his elbows to check on Ciri (who’d replaced her heel with her own personal dagger, and was hissing something about not messing with her dads into the guard's ear) but stopped when his attempt answered the question of the missing dagger for him. His shoulder was suddenly on fire, and the world went a bit wobbly around the edges. He dropped back to the ground.

"Geralt! Are you alright?" asked Emhyr.

"M'fine. Just catching my breath," said Geralt.

Other guards were rushing in now--a good twenty seconds too late to have been effective, and he’d be talking to Emhyr about revising their training when this was all over--though at this point all there was for them to do was pull Ciri off the assassin. Shackles were procured from somewhere, and both Emhyr and Ciri were quickly surrounded by a protective wall of twitchy guards.

Through the wall, Geralt could hear Emhyr shouting for a medic, which struck Geralt as silly. The dagger hurt, but it wasn’t _ that _deep. He reached around carefully, and probed at the edges of the wound. From the blade’s angle and depth (or lack thereof) it seemed like the guard had stabbed him more by accident than anything.

Geralt gritted his teeth, then pulled it out in one clean yank.

“Dammit, Geralt, leave it alone. There’s help on the way,” Emhyr said, shouldering his way through the guards, despite their protests, to reach Geralt. 

Geralt started to shrug, then thought better of it. “Careful with this,” he said, handing the dagger off to a hovering guard. “Blade’s poisoned.”

“Poisoned? How bad is it?” asked Emhyr. He was crouched next to Geralt (when had that happened?), his pulse high and his breathing shallow. He was worried. Worried about Geralt, which probably shouldn't have made Geralt feel all warm and fuzzy inside, but hey--turnabout was fair play.

Geralt would have grinned, but he was having a bit of trouble working his mouth muscles. His vision was getting increasingly blurry, too, and it was surprisingly hard to focus on Emhyr’s face.

“S’not great,” he admitted. Emhyr was still next to him, but he also looked very far away, with walls of black pressing in on Geralt's vision from all sides.

Emhyr seemed to be saying something, seemed to be shouting something, actually, but Geralt’s ears had gone fuzzy. 

He wished he could hear what Emhyr was saying. He wanted to comfort him, tell him it was alright--but his tongue was heavy now, too, and then the walls closed in completely.

* * *

When he woke up, he could tell not much time had passed. He was still in his masquerade clothes, and the turkey on his leg hadn’t had the chance to cool completely. 

Someone had moved him from the ballroom. The ceiling here was different, and when Geralt worked up the energy to glance around the room, he could see that he was on a couch in one of the antechambers. Emhyr was on the other side of the room, yelling at a terrified looking man that Geralt recognized as Emhyr’s personal physician. Ciri was there, too, perched on the edge of a couch with a familiar bottle in her hand.

“Golden Oriole?” Geralt asked.

Ciri nodded. “I poured some into your mouth after you fainted.”

“After I passed out from the poison.”

“Yeah, that.”

Emhyr turned to give Geralt a once over, which would have been sexier if Emhyr didn’t look half a minute away from killing someone. 

“Are you well?” Emhyr asked, his voice tight.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, for being stabbed, anyway.” His shoulder had been expertly bandaged, and now that his system was clear, the biggest thing ailing him was an empty stomach. Fighting off poison always took a lot out of him.

Emhyr nodded. “You may go, then,” he said to his physician, who looked like he was about to faint with relief. 

“You get Margriet?” Geralt asked him.

“She’s in the dungeons, along with the guard."

Geralt relaxed a bit. “And Evert? He was only doing it because he thought he’d be killed, you know. Same with what’s-her-name. Anje.”

“If he wanted to avoid death, then attempting regicide was a poor decision,” said Emhyr. 

Ciri frowned. So did Geralt. Emhyr looked at them both, and sighed.

“Fine,” Emhyr said, reluctantly. “A lifetime banishment, then, for them both.”

“I can live with that,” said Geralt.

“You almost didn’t,” said Emhyr. “If Ciri hadn’t gotten you the Golden Oriole-”

“I could've fought off the poison by myself. Witcher, remember?”

“This time might’ve been more than you could handle,” said Ciri. “You should have seen your face when Emhyr pulled your mask off. I don’t think I’ve ever seen your veins quite that black.”

Well, that was unsettling to know. Geralt examined the backs of his hands, but his veins were clear, now--the Golden Oriole had done its job.

“Well, I’m fine now. Doubt I’ll even scar.” Geralt sat up and swung his legs off the couch, prompting both Emhyr and Ciri to lean forward, as if to catch him. 

“I said I’m alright."

“Sure,” said Ciri. “I do notice that you’re not standing up, though.”

“Just foiled an assassination. I think I deserve a sit down.”

Ciri rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, and when Morvran came into the room she crossed over to stand by him, apparently trusting Geralt to recover on his own.

A quick survey of the room confirmed that if there had been any food platters in here, they’d been cleared out. Geralt pinched off a bit of the turkey still hanging onto his ankle. It was lukewarm, but otherwise pretty good. It even had a couple crunchy bits of skin left on it--Geralt's favorite.

A quiet huff stopped him as he was reaching for a second bite. He looked up to see Emhyr watching him. 

“Those etiquette lessons were a waste of time, weren’t they?” said Emhyr. “Mererid, please send for some food.”

“The turkey isn’t bad, you know,” said Geralt. 

“It was on your boot.”

“Yeah, the topside of it.”

Emhyr sat on the couch next to him and gave him a hard look. “Geralt. You’re the Imperial Consort. Please stop eating food off the floor.”

Geralt took another bite, partly to spite him, and partly because he was hungry and it actually was pretty good turkey. “Oh? Am I still consort? Thought that was just part of your mind games.”

Emhyr was silent for a moment. Geralt took a third bite.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t name you consort as part of my attempt to out-bluff you,” Emhyr said, eventually. “If, however, you were telling the truth, and really do enjoy spending time with me-”

“You know I was telling the truth. There was a spell and everything.”

“-then I don’t see any point in walking back the decision. Assuming that is your wish as well, of course.”

“Emhyr,” said Geralt, slowly. “I have to ask, because this month has been very confusing, and there’s been a lot of mixed signals: is this your way of asking me to be yours?”

Emhyr’s cheeks pinked, his hands twitched ever-so slightly--probably not noticeable to those without witcher senses, but Geralt could see his nervousness (Emhyr, nervous!) clear as day. 

“Yes,” Emhyr said, and despite any anxiety he might be feeling, he didn’t hesitate, and his gaze as he looked at Geralt was steady.

“Then yes,” said Geralt.

The second kiss was better than the first. There was no getting dragged off to the dungeons, for starters. Geralt was able to take his time, savoring Emhyr’s lips (surprisingly soft) and his fingers (unsurprisingly strong) as Emhyr tilted Geralt’s face to a better angle, then deepened the kiss.

There was a moan--Geralt couldn’t be sure whose--as Geralt pressed closer. He knew that his hands were probably wandering further than was appropriate for a public space, but dammit, Emhyr had almost died, and he had almost died, and worse, he’d been forced to make small talk with nobles all evening--he deserved this. Emhyr’s hips fit perfectly in his hands, and his thighs were as warm and strong as Geralt had imagined, and when he ran a hand up them...

Behind him he heard Ciri make a gagging noise. Emhyr pulled back, his lips swollen and his eyes dark.

“Too far?” asked Geralt.

“Yes,” said Ciri.

“Actually, this time it _ is _your breath,” said Emhyr. 

“Oh.”

“The last thing to touch your lips was floor turkey-”

“It was on my boot, not the floor.”

“-and before that, prior to Cirilla administering the Golden Oriole...well. There was some vomiting.”

“Ah.”

“And foaming,” added Ciri.

“I’ll wash my mouth,” said Geralt. 

Mererid had returned with a platter of fruits and cheese by that point. Geralt stood, wobbling only a little, and grabbed the whole tray from him, etiquette be damned. He gave Emhyr one last, heated look, then headed for their bedroom.

* * *

By the time Emhyr returned to their rooms, Geralt had fallen asleep. Being stabbed and poisoned took it out of a person.

“Could still, you know,” said Geralt blearily as Emhyr pulled back the covers and settled in for the night. “Could still do something.”

Emhyr reached over and peeled a piece of cheese off of Geralt’s face from where he’d fallen asleep on the platter.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Emhyr said.

* * *

Geralt woke up the same way he had the other morning that he’d spent in Emhyr’s bed--half hard, aching, and reaching towards Emhyr.

This time, however, the sheets weren’t cold and empty, and Geralt’s hand met warm flesh as Emhyr reached back.

Emhyr approached lovemaking with the same methodical, intense concentration with which he approached Gwent. And yeah, Geralt could see where he’d been years without a lover--the hesitation in his movements, the quiver in his fingers, the sharp, shocked gasp when he pressed into Geralt--but, like anything else he turned his mind to, Emhyr learned quickly. By the end, Geralt was a sweaty, shaky mess, and Emhyr was looking too smug for his own good.

“I do have things to do today,” Emhyr said, his eyes crinkling up in one of his not-smiles as Geralt dragged him back down onto the pillows.

“You almost got assassinated yesterday. Take the day off.”

“I suppose I _could_ use some time in bed to recover,” said Emhyr, eyeing Geralt’s body thoughtfully.

* * *

Emhyr did end up taking the day off. And the one after that.

* * *

Madame Paskamp’s ball wound up being cancelled, what with its host being chained up in the dungeons. However, there was another fancy party the week after (there was always another fancy party) that Geralt attended, and it was there that he was finally able to dance with the Ruever daughter like they’d planned all those weeks ago.

He danced just badly enough to irritate her, stepping lightly on her toes several times before bowing incorrectly and scooting off to find Emhyr. From across the room he could see Ciri dancing with a thrilled looking young man--presumably the de Lange kid--and Geralt was certain that the whole damn thing would turn out exactly as Ciri and Emhyr had planned.

Geralt was glad he was on their side. Emhyr and Ciri working together made for a terrifying team.

He found Emhyr on one of the upper balconies overlooking the dance floor, watching Ciri and smiling faintly.

“There. I did it. Happy now?” Geralt said.

“Yes,” said Emhyr. He turned to face Geralt, and his smile twitched just a hair wider. Geralt suddenly wasn’t sure whether they were still talking about the dance.

“Yeah, me too,” said Geralt, his voice hoarse. 

The last week had been spent running small witcher contracts during the day, then returning in the evenings for dinner with Emhyr and Ciri. Ciri was warming towards Emhyr, now, as their frequent meals allowed for conversation beyond grilling her about how her lessons were progressing. 

Then after dinner, Emhyr would read, or do paperwork, or play Gwent with Geralt. Geralt was getting closer to beating him, too. Emhyr wasn’t the only one who was a fast learner.

And at the end of the day, Geralt had a warm pair of arms waiting for him. 

Geralt was going to give the tailor a goddamned medal. 

“Care to dance?” Emhyr asked, extending his arm.

Geralt hooked his own arm through it, and they walked together towards the stairs. 

“Fair warning: I danced badly with the Ruever girl, so I’m going to have to dance badly with you, too. To keep up the charade.”

Emhyr snorted, as if he thought Geralt was joking. 

* * *

In the end, Geralt only stepped on his toes a few times.

Okay, maybe more than a few times, but it was Emhyr’s fault for having a face that twitched so hilariously when Geralt did.

“Me dancing badly is part of your plan, remember? This is for the good of the Empire,” said Geralt.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Emhyr muttered, giving Geralt an irritated glare as the dance came to a close.

“Love you, too,” said Geralt, and stepped on his foot one last time.


End file.
